Sniper Elite: Memoirs of Africa
by The Cat was the Mastermind
Summary: "You're a tough one, Karl, but you're not invincible. You don't have to win this war on your own you know."
1. Chapter 1

**Sniper Elite: Memoirs of Africa**

Being surrounded by men groaning in agony; the stench of blood, piss and puss; the exhausted nurses and scant few doctors hovering around anxiously; ah, the joys of the sick tent.  
Karl hated _every second_ of being in that tent.  
He was well enough to keep going on missions, he'd said that much to the captain, but the officer just shook his head and replied: "Son, you were throwing up not an hour ago and you look like you look like you're about to faint on your feet. We're stopping by another patrol with a doctor, and you're staying there until we've made sure that you don't have malaria."  
After narrow victories on vital missions, dodging bullets, kissing the reaper on the cheek one day after the other, he was knocked out of action by the damned flu of all things. It pissed him off.  
Karl didn't bother silencing, or even translating into English, the stream of muttered German curses working their way out of his mouth when a nurse stopped at his bed.  
She was a rosy-cheeked young woman, but her eyes were hard and only chilled when Karl refused to allow her to take his temperature.  
"Take the bloody thermometer in your mouth or its going up the other end." She warned.  
Deciding that he didn't feel well enough to pick a fight with the nurse (especially since the look in her eyes suggested that she was willing to make good on her threat), he relented and held the cold tube of glass under his tongue. The nurse checked in with a man next to him with second-degree burns from a vehicle fire. She met Karl's glare when she turned back to him and looked at the thermometer reading. She scowled,  
"Thirty-nine degrees Celsius." She looked back at Karl, frown softening, and he knew how bad he looked: bags under his eyes, sweat coating every inch of his body, pale except for a flush on his cheeks, heartbeat noticeably fast. "Your temperature has gone up since we last checked. You're staying here."  
Karl sighed in aggravation as she left, his temples pounding.

The groaning man next to Karl quieted down after the sun set. It was a relief; the man's pain was only a reminder that he was here, taking up space. The fever and headache made it impossible to sleep, and he tossed and turned, annoyed at how he felt too hot despite how cold the night air was, and how the thin sheet under him stuck to his sweaty skin. When he heard feet sinking into the sand near his cot, he assumed it was a nurse doing the graveyard shift.  
"Mr. Fairburne."  
He opened his eyes. This man definitely wasn't one of the nurses.  
The dim light from a few scattered lamps and the way his head swam made it harder to see, but he could make out the features of a bandaged man in uniform standing at the foot of his cot.  
He was 5'9" and stocky, with sun-browned skin, with plain features, brown hair that was combed back, brown eyes that were creased at the edges, a mustache trimmed in a style Karl had seen on too many working men to count and bandages wrapped his chest, visible through his half-unbuttoned, dusty, shirt.  
His appearance was so completely average that he could've been lost in a crowd of three, but Karl recognized his face and voice all the same.  
"Benjamin Brauer, right?"  
The man he'd rescued from Fort Rifugio two months ago chuckled. "Nice to see that you haven't forgotten about me."  
"I don't forget faces."  
"Hard to believe you're here now. Malaria?"  
"It's only the flu." Karl tried not to grumble.  
"No offense but you look like shit. You probably shouldn't be out doing suicide missions like you normally do...or so I hear." Brauer shrugged. "I listen, and it seems you've built up quite a reputation."  
Brauer looked much better than the bloody, slumped, limping man Karl covered during the mission. His unkempt mustache and hair were both trimmed, his bandages a pristine white, his uniform clean, if a little sandy, and his eyes bright and sharp.  
"You look better than me." Karl mentioned.  
"I think so too, but I'm still under observation. I had to wait until Nurse Frightengale was off-duty to see you at least. She's got a worse temper than my torturer did." Brauer chuckled and smiled at Karl as he sat down on the low cot, careful to avoid Karl's legs. "Thank you. It's small, but it occurred to me that I never said it to you."  
"You don't have to. I was doing my job."  
Brauer raised his hand to his chest in mock hurt. "Markson wasn't joking when he said you were colder than an ice box."  
"Markson is full of shit."  
"Oh? It seems he was correct about you though."  
"Did you expect me to weep with relief?"  
"No. 'Glad to see that you're still alive' you have sufficed."  
Brauer's words were joking, not accusing, but they stung in Karl's chest. He had been confident that the informer he rescued would live; his worst injuries had been broken ribs after all. Still, he _should've_ gone to see if Brauer was alright, or at least asked the captain. In the back of his mind, he could almost see a half-memory and half-imagining image of his mother in her favorite patterned dress, shaking a wooden spoon at him and telling him that this wasn't how she raised him.  
"I'm sorry. You shouldn't have had to sneak out and risk the nurse's wrath to say that."  
"And you should be. 'Shame, shame, shame' as mu mum used to say. She'd yell for hours if I ever did that."  
 _Mine would just give me a watschen_. Karl thought. He found himself relaxing and answering with, "Then I should be glad she and my mother aren't here."  
"Our mums with us here! Can you imagine? They wouldn't let us out of the camp!" Brauer laughed and the man next to them groaned and turned over.  
"Quiet! You want the nurse to find us?" He had to keep from smirking through the words.  
Brauer caught his breath and stopped laughing. "Well except maybe Drew's. He said she had to be told by the recruiter that she couldn't sign up herself."  
 _Doesn't surprise me._ Karl thought. _A woman would have to be tough in order to raise a son on her own_.  
"You can see where Drew got it from. He might not look it, but he's got better aim with a grenade than me, and he's not too bad with a scoped rifle. Made that Nazi who tried to hijack one of his trucks think twice."  
Brauer smiled, than it fell off his face and he gave Karl an odd look.  
"If you don't mind me asking, how did a German end up in the US army?"  
Karl sat up as if hit with a pole-axe.  
"Relax, I'm not accusing you of divided loyalties; you certainly didn't hesitate to shoot fifty Waffen-SS to help me escape. I just like to get to know my teammates, and I'll be joining your patrol as soon as you head out."  
Karl fell completely silent. The only person in his patrol who knew, only of two people, now he supposed, was Captain Kelson. Karl had made the decision to be the silent American with an odd accent on the day of his deployment. As it was, he was treated with privacy and a distant respect and that was how he liked it. He wasn't going to risk staring and private jokes by throwing the closet door open and exposing all of his skeletons to the light of day.  
"Why do you ask?" Karl asked in a tone that was more waspish than intended.  
"I just said; I like getting to know my teammates. Also, I'm far too curious for my own good as you'll find. Comes with being an informant."  
Karl raised an eyebrow at Brauer's honesty. No ulterior motives, he was sure, but he had plenty of memories he was perfectly content with them being locked away. "My past is mine. But I will say this: I'm no damned spy or defector. What I'm doing here, I'm doing for my country."  
"America or Germany?"  
"Both."  
Brauer tapped his chin and stared at the ceiling above him, watching the waves in the canvas from the wind, as if they were inside a brown fabric ocean, looking up. "That's one way of looking at it. You can stop glaring now; I've already said that I'm not accusing you of anything. The French Resistance is fighting the Vichy agents because they love their country right?"  
He looked down and meet Karl's glare. "Contrary to what you might think, you being German is not a secret. Drew told me that you were born in Berlin, the son of the Weimar Republic's ambassador to America, when he and Markson came by offering everybody moonshine and I asked about you."  
"What?"  
"Nobody holding it against you, mate. Except maybe Markson, but I think he holds everything against everybody. That one's blood runs a little hot for a sniper."  
"Of course he does," Karl growled. _Everyone knew? Everyone?_ He thought. He scoured his memories for anything that could've tipped him off.  
"Lieutenant, the LRDG has everyone from New Zealanders to Rhodesians in it. Nobody cares that our dear American hanger-on is German."  
"Your dear American hanger-on is going to win the war for you if you all don't stop drinking and chatting."  
"Really? So we can all go home and have a pint? Thanks mate!"  
Brauer laughed louder, prompting Karl to shush him. He clapped Karl on the back.  
"Well, you've answered my question, so I'll take my leave before I make your headache worse." He stood up and turned and Karl remembered why he'd come here in the first place.  
"Glad to see that you're still alive."  
Brauer turned to look back at him with a smirk barely visible and tinged with yellow from the lamplight.  
"Same to you, Karl."


	2. Chapter 2

_Hello! (Finally doing an author's comments). So...yes. This fan fiction series is Memoirs of Africa, a sort of AU of Sniper Elite III (thus it will have a few "re-told") scenes as well as scenes that do not occur in the source material. The main reason I wrote this is because, frankly, the storyboard writers for SE-III dropped the ball. So this gets made to flesh out some characters and the story. There will be several OCs, as seen here, but only Drew and Sean (as well as two others I cannot reveal yet because spoilers) will be important. As a learning writer, comments, critiques and reviews are much appreciated by me! I need your feedback to improve my work!_

* * *

Brauer's eyes were drilling holes into the back of Karl's head.  
"You've been standing there for fifteen minutes."  
"You've spent the last fifteen minutes cleaning all thirty-eight of your guns."  
"I only have six."  
"And you're re-cleaning the Lee-Enfield."  
Karl paused, looking over the removed bolt. "I think I missed a spot."  
"Knowing you, I doubt it. And you barely use that rifle."  
"All the more reason to check for sand and rust." Annoyance crept up Karl's spine like a muscle cramp. Couldn't Brauer leave him in peace? He really didn't need distractions while dissembling a gun.  
"I think you have this many guns just to clean them all. You've already cleaned my Sten when I wasn't looking."  
"You're complaining?"  
"No. But why do you compulsively clean rifles if you know they're clean?"  
"It's something for my hands to do."  
"There are far more fun ways to occupy your hands than cleaning a Lee-Enfield."  
Karl turned away from the fold-up table and the carefully picked-apart gun on it to glare at Brauer. "Did you come here for the specific purpose of annoying me?"  
Brauer grinned cheekily and shrugged from where he stood at the entrance of their shared tent. "You're not that much fun to annoy. It takes a lot of effort to get a rise out of you."  
"Then why do you insist?" Karl scowled.  
"I needed to get your attention. What was the question I asked you when I walked in?"  
That got Karl's silence. Truth be told, he _didn't_ remember what Brauer had asked him when he entered the tent. Karl had been disassembling his Garand and was focusing intently on the parts he was taking out even though he knew every piece and how it fit together by heart and could've done it in his sleep; some of the gun's parts were under pressure, and he didn't want one of them to get launched at his face because he was careless. He'd barely registered Brauer coming in.  
Karl turned back to the rifle and started checking its inner workings to make sure nothing had cracked, rusted, or shifted into the wrong place.  
Brauer sighed. "I asked if you wanted to come outside and join me and the lads out by the fire."  
"Why?" Karl wiped down the inside of the gun with a cleaning rag, but when he turned the cloth over it came up clean.  
"To drink. To trade cigarettes. To talk about home. To complain about the heat and food. Honestly, do you think of anything other than work? You'll go grey by the time you're thirty."  
"There's a _war_ to win." Karl replied, finding himself once more exasperated about Brauer's habit of taking nothing seriously.  
"And how will we muster up the morale to fight it if we don't gather to remind ourselves why we're fighting? We all need to stop and breathe once in a while, or we'll burn out."  
Karl considered Brauer's words, flipping the bolt between his fingers.  
"I'm not tired, and my reminder of what I'm fighting for is never far from my mind. You go on and have a drink, I'll be here." Karl's hand went to his scarf subconsciously, adjusting it so it wasn't so loose.  
Brauer sighed melodramatically. "Very well. Coop yourself up in here like a hermit. I'm only trying to keep you from losing your voice; I fear you've forgotten how to talk sometimes with how little you do it."  
Karl ignored him and soaked a cleaning patch in a solvent. He was about to attach it to the cleaning rod before Brauer's hand landed on his shoulder.  
"Karl," The joke was all out of Brauer's voice, and earnest concern replaced it. "It's rude to ignore all of them. They're your teammates. We all have each other's backs in this, right? Can you at least learn everybody's full name?"  
Karl paused, eyes still on the small white patch in his fingers.  
Tom Clarke always said hello when Karl was on the firing range; Drew Kelly was always friendly and had visited Karl in the medical tent, even offering to bring him booze or cigarettes if he wanted them; Sean Markson was, if anything, even crankier than Karl, but even he never missed one of the almost ritual gatherings around the fire once the sun went down. But those were the only names Karl could put to faces. Maybe Brauer had a point, maybe he ought to at least make an appearance, but it struck him as uncomfortably odd and stilted to show up to the gatherings after being absent for so long.  
"The last time I interacted with all of them, it ended with me standing in an oasis without pants." He finally replied, satisfied with that explanation.  
Brauer was not. "They did that to me too. It was a joke Fairburne, a soldier's way of welcoming. Don't tell me you're holding a grudge over it."  
"I'm not."  
"The go say hello at least. I can talk enough for the both of us. You just sit, drink booze and listen. You don't have to give a speech."  
Karl turned to Brauer, looking for a familiar smirk but the other man's brown eyes were completely sincere and pouting fiercely. Looking down, Karl realized that he'd rubbed the patch in his hand until it was so thin that he could almost feel the texture of his thumb through it.  
Realizing that he couldn't successfully ignore Brauer, he sighed. "Alright. You win."  
Brauer's chipper demeanor returned and he clapped Karl on the back with an encouraging smile. "Cheer up mate. I didn't invite you to an execution."  
As Karl put the rifle back together, Brauer grabbed his favorite deck of cards from his beside table.  
The tarot cards were hand-painted (by an occasionally sloppy hand) and Brauer absolutely adored them, but Karl didn't ask why anymore than Brauer asked why Karl wore the same scarf all the time, even when sleeping. Brauer counted the cards as Karl put the Lee-Enfield with the other guns by his cot. He admired the card at the end of his count with a smile, and glanced at Karl from the corner of his eye. "Shall we go?"  
Karl left the tent first, pushing the flaps aside without a response. "Yes then?"  
Brauer frowned at him. "It's considered rude to just walk off. You didn't answer me."  
"Did I have to? I thought my answer was implied." Karl deadpanned.  
"You've got a strange way of looking at things." Brauer's smile returned. "But it _is_ considered rude to just walk off, regardless of answer."  
Karl just scuffed his boot along the ground, looking at the rock formation above their heads the men had dubbed "the Big Cat" because of its dark tabby stripes created by the play of shadow and light in the stone's grooves and its shape resembled that of a stretching cat.  
Brauer started off towards the campfire off to the camp's side, and when Karl didn't immediately follow, he said, "Let's go Fairburne." louder than necessary.  
The camp was a tiny gathering of clustered tan the same color as the sand and big enough for two people. Once they hit an Italian supply depot tomorrow, they would pack everything into the trucks and head back to the eighth army headquarters. But for today the trucks were still, in a ring about the camp which sat in the long shadow of the Big Cat, whose "stripes" got darker as the shadows in the scars of the stone grew longer. The campfire was at the edge of the tents, immediately under the mass of stone, and the fire peeked out from between the trucks and tents, orange and cheerful.  
This fire was a ritual for the British patrol, a ritual for every patrol, Drew once said. As soon as the sun started going down and everyone's tasks were completed, all the grunts gathered around a fire to relax, talk, and for a few hours at least, make light of, or ignore, the war. Sure enough, all fourteen of the regulars were already gathered around the fire, sitting in folding chairs brought out from their tents or sitting cross-legged in the stiff sand. Karl could hear laughter and faint conversation, and recognize Drew from where he sat, furthest away from the fire (an odd thing for a man so social, but everyone knew the story of the scars on the vehicular engineer's forearms.).  
Drew also saw them first and waved, the light from the fire reflecting angrily on the red burn scars on his arm. "There you are! Have a seat." He pointed to two empty fold-up chairs by the fire.  
Drew had a boyish face that made him look younger than he was; his soft features and scattered freckles belied his twenty-four years. He had dark blond hair that nearly reached into his quiet blue eyes, and a constant, crooked but sincere smile as if about to chuckle at a wry could fix any gun or vehicle they had with the right parts, and jury-rig something if he didn't. His still, a strange beast of flasks and tubing, currently hidden back where the Eighth Army was stationed, stood testament to this particular talent.  
Brauer pulled Karl into a chair next to him, and Karl felt a little relief seeing that the men's eyes were all on Brauer and not him.  
"Brauer!" A soldier with hazel eyes and short brown hair that whirled and stood up like a small windstorm had blown through it. "Nice to see you finally joined us!" He joked in the breathy accent of northern Wales.  
"I couldn't stay away. Oi, have you started the poker game without me?" Two soldiers similar looking enough to be family grinned at Brauer from where they sat at a fold-up table that was across the fire from them.  
"You were late. We weren't sure if you were coming." The Welsh soldier replied with a smirk. "Maybe if you let us play with your card deck, we could squeeze you in."  
"Hah! I would let you borrow it, but you're often drunk and near a fire, Banes."  
Banes sputtered a laugh around his cup of moonshine.  
Drew started filling small tin cups of his moonshine and passing them around. Banes told a wry joke to a dark-haired soldier with a Norfolk accent next to him, prompting the other to smirk. The two cousins playing poker started arguing over the value of their hands, hardly noticing the two cups that shook precariously near the edge of their table.  
When he and Brauer were passed cups of moonshine, Karl looked at the stuff with mild suspicion. It was clear and had a powerfully alcoholic odor, burning his nose when he sniffed at it. He'd tried it earlier when Drew brought him some in the med tent and Karl had nearly gotten them both caught with his coughing and sputtering. It was easily the strongest drink Karl had ever touched, and it had tasted like kerosene. Drew claimed nobody had died or gone blind after drinking it, but Karl wasn't really assured. On the other hand, he sincerely doubted that the captain would turn a blind eye to Drew's brewing if somebody was put in the med tent because of it.  
Brauer downed his cup in one fast swig, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as he did so. "Shit, Drew. What's in this?"  
"Torpedo fuel. It's mostly grain alcohol based, so I just have to remove the additives."  
Everyone looked up at Drew. The blond grinned. "I'm joking."  
"You better be." Somebody grumbled noncommittally, as everyone went back to their cups except Karl, who set his down on the hard-packed sand.  
"I heard that the Italians have wine with their rations." A red-headed man with a dark tan, a long nose and a Scottish burr spoke up. "Good red wine and spirits. Where the hell are they getting it from?"  
"Same generous hands givin' them their officers' hats?" Sean Markson grumbled.  
Sean was twenty-seven and more cynical than most men were on their deathbeds. He was "old blood" who'd been fighting on the front-lines since the war first started, three years ago, and rumor had it that he witnessed the rest of his original unit perish in France. His intensely green eyes were sharp and cutting, at odds with the rest of his face. With raven-black hair that fell in soft waves over his forehead, ivory skin, slender fingers, finely-etched features and sharp cheekbones on a smooth face, the Yorkshire native almost looked too delicate to be in war; yet before Karl had taken up residence with the patrol, Sean had been one of the deadliest snipers in the entire LRDG, and his record spoke for itself.  
"We ought to look tomorrow. I bet the damned regulars have been drinking all the booze they find." A soldier with a Liverpool accent laughed.  
"We look!" The Scottish soldier slammed his fist on his leg, making the moonshine in the cup resting on his opposite knee swish and spill. "Next time we comb the area for booze before we leave."  
"The captain wants this next one done quickly so we can rejoin the Eighth by tomorrow morning." Banes pointed out.  
Karl glanced at Brauer. A smile was spreading under his mustache as he listened to the debate. He was thinking something up, Karl could see it by the twinkle in his eyes.  
"If we're going to find where they're keeping the wine, we'll need the advance scouts to get an idea of where we should look." Brauer said slowly. He turned to Karl. "Fairburne, do you think you could look for us?"  
The others turned to Karl, their expressions waiting and expecting. Karl felt like an insect being pinned to a card.  
"And if I don't find anything?" He answered stiffly.  
"Then it was never there." Brauer smiled a bit more easily, and leaned back in his chair.  
"If anyone could find it..." Drew started.  
Karl narrowed his eyes at Brauer, who raised his eyebrows in response. The sorry bastard had _planned_ this. Backing out now would be seen as cowardice, and Karl didn't have to go far out of his way to help on the fool's errand.  
Fine; he could play this game.  
"Sure. I'll keep my ears open."


	3. Chapter 3

Drew had a bad feeling when he saw rig 2 under the wooden canopy next to the petrol barrels where he worked. He checked the Chevrolet over first for any obvious problems, eyes straining in the semi-darkness. No fluids dripping onto the boards beneath it, no broken parts thrown on the hood, no odd smells or bullet holes. But he did see a rather bad omen.  
The hood was up.  
The Lancaster native groaned. _Didn't I specifically_ tell _George not to leave the hood up?_ He thought. He pulled on his old gloves and walked up to the rig, knowing what he'd find. Sure enough, a layer of dust covered everything in the engine. God only knew how many parts needed cleaning or replacing.  
"Shite." He muttered. He went to get his toolbox. The Chevrolet had only been due to have its tires replaced, now it probably needed the brakes fixed. God forbid it got into the oil...  
"Problem Drew?" Drew looked up to Brauer peering at him curiously. Karl was next to him, silent.  
"Ah," Drew looked back at the rig. "Just... can you do me a big favor and tell George to listen to me when I'm talking to him next time? There's sand in some of the engine parts now."  
Brauer frowned. "That doesn't sound good."  
"I should think not." Drew muttered. "Happy shooting by the way. Just please try not to wake up the entire camp." The set-up shooting ranges were right next to several of the tents in their patrol's small camp at headquarters.  
Brauer led Karl over to the armory, set up in a rickety, wooden shanty with rack after rack of the many rifles, pistols and sub-machine guns the patrol had been issued, traded with other patrols for, and occasionally stole from dead opponents and their captured outposts. They came out Brauer holding a Carcano taken from an Italian soldier and Karl with a Lee-Enfield wrapped in camouflage netting. As he checked the fluids in the truck he heard the two men discuss how the bolt-action gun's recoil had been affected by its other alterations.  
Karl frowned when Brauer refuted his argument, but his eyes showed no true annoyance. Drew had learned that the German-American sniper liked to keep his cards close to his chest, and he deliberately adopted expressions that were difficult to read. But Drew had also learned that he could read Karl by watching his eyes.  
During a mission the sniper's ice-blue eyes were piercing and focused, like an eagle's and once the look lost some of its harshness he had shifted out of his hunter mentality and could be talked to normally again. When the corners of his eyes turned up slightly, he was amused. A fractional narrowing indicated offence. If his eyelids dropped slightly he was relaxed - a rare expression, sometimes accompanied by him fiddling with whatever object was in his hands at the time, usually his scarf or one of Brauer's tarot cards.  
Now the turned up slightly at a joke about the length of the Italian Carcano Brauer made, despite Karl chiding him for being so coarse.  
It was good that Brauer had approached Karl. Drew had succeeded in earning the sniper's forgiveness after the oasis practical joke, but had never managed to crack the man's shell. Brauer had, perhaps because of a shared kinship in how Karl rescued Brauer and how they had both spent much of their childhoods in Germany. Not only that, but he got Karl to open up, at least a little, to the rest of them. Since Karl found the wine stash in the outpost, he'd been popular within the patrol, his reputation undergoing a shift from "the silent, scary sniper from Germany, thrust upon us by the Americans" to "the badass sniper who ensures the mission's success". He still rarely stayed very long at the campfires, but he was coming there regularly, and was slowly spending more and more time there.  
Drew found the belts thankfully unbroken but they showed some wear and breathed a sigh of relief to find no sand in the engine oil. At least it wouldn't be necessary to explain to the captain why the entire engine needed replacing. He'd still need to check the brake system later though.  
He closed the hood and looked over to the rifle range, where Brauer and Karl were cleaning the rifles they'd picked up before shooting. The ranges were well set-up - Drew had to give Patel and himself credit. They had a pistol and SMG range in addition to a rifle range, and Drew had jury-rigged a system to make the target cut-outs pop up and down and move from side to side in between piles of junk that simulated cover. Brauer set up first, and Karl flipped the switch that activated the range. A bell sounded out to let the camp know that someone was using the range and thus gunshots were (probably) no cause for alarm. The first cut-out flipped upright, and Brauer shot it down.  
The pound of rifle was a sound that was strangely soothing and familiar, after the chill that went down Drew's back with the initial shot despite himself. Drew grimaced as he went to his station to get a jack. He been in this war too long.  
Duncan Murray, a Scotsman in the patrol deeply dedicated to both his drink and his church, staggered out of the main sleeping tent. He glanced at the firing range where the bell that had roused him sounded and muttered something inaudible over the noise of Brauer's rifle. He walked over to Drew, who was just beginning to loosen the wheel nuts on the left front wheel. "Do they have to be up and shooting so early? I was in the middle of morning prayer." He grumbled.  
"Desert shooting is best in the morning. Sean should be up and with them in a moment." Drew replied, as he positioned the jack.  
Duncan waited until Drew had finished jacking up the vehicle to speak again. "I bloody know that I just wish they didn't start shooting this early. I can't hear myself talk." He had to shout a bit to be heard over the periodic cracking of the Carcano.  
Drew looked up at him as he quickly removed the wheel nuts and wheel before draping a tarp over the spot so no additional sand got at the brake as he put the tire and nuts aside for the moment. "If God's up there Duncan, he'll hear you no matter what."  
"Well...oi, what do you mean _if_ he's up there?"  
Drew shrugged. "War." He said simply.  
As Duncan walked away, Drew draped a rag he wet with water from his canteen over his face and put on his goggles before holding his breath and looking under the tarp, toolbox in hand. After swiftly removing the many parts attaching the drum brake, poking his head outside the tarp for some fresh air to avoid inhaling any brake dust, and finally carefully slid the drum off the spindle before wiping it down with rag which he tossed as far from his station as he could manage, to be disposed of later. There were grooves from wear on the brake drums, but thankfully nothing severe, and no hard spots or burned places either. Drew would have sighed in relief if he wasn't so worried about inhaling any brake dust. The shoes didn't even need readjusting. He put back the drum, and replaced the tire and set the vehicle down, before moving on to the other tires.  
He noticed Sean walking down to the firing range, Lee-Enfield shouldered. The dark-haired sniper headed over to the rifle range, and without a word, set up next to Karl. Karl briefly glanced up at Sean in between rounds, but didn't say anything either. When Sean was done cleaning his Lee-Enfield, Brauer flipped the switch on the firing range and stood back.  
The air filled again with crack of rifles, this time closer in sync and faster, as the two men shot down target after target, each trying to get more than the other. Their shots were so close together that as soon as one cutout fell from one's bullet, it would be struck again by a bullet from the other as it fell. The other men in the patrol, who had been steadily trickling out of their tent, started to collect at the firing range, watching the impromptu competition.  
Once Drew finished setting the truck down after putting on the last tire, he joined the others. Impressed whistled and comments were being exchanged, but not between the two competitors. Karl and Sean were both stone-faced and they shook each other' hand stiffly and with hardly a grunt of acknowledgement. The crowd was hardly phased by the lack of sportsmanship. In a combat unit, pride was a closely nurtured and protected thing, and boasting, mocking, showing off, and challenging others was as natural as breathing. Besides, Karl and Sean's antipathy towards each other was well-known. Within minutes of their first meeting Drew felt a bitter distaste between them, and it had only gotten more pronounced now that they were in regular contact through the group's twilight gatherings and team missions.  
"Must be nice to have a spotter for once, eh lads?" Everyone hastily turned about and saluted. The captain smiled, a bit of affection deep in his eyes, like a father watching his children roughhouse. The crowd parted for him as he walked towards Sean and Karl, who still stood, saluting. "At ease," Their hands returned to their sides.  
"We've got new information." He rose his voice so the entire patrol could easily hear. "The Germans have a motor pool of Tigers in a small outpost not far from the camp we were at a week ago. If we take out those tanks and the radio tower near it the next push will be considerably easier. However, the area is surrounded by rock faces and therefore all roads in and out have multiple choke points. A drive-by is risky." He pinned down Karl and Sean with blue eyes. "Two lone operatives however would have little trouble slipping through the cracks in the outpost's defenses, and the terrain in and around the area is ideal for snipers."  
Sean and Karl briefly glanced at each other, then turned back to the captain. "Markson, Fairburne, I want you two to get in and destroy the radio tower and motor pool. Kelly will drive you near the area and provide you with an exit once you're finished." Drew stood straighter at mention of his name. "I expect the three of you to meet me here in two days for the mission at nineteen-hundred hours. Dismissed."  
The captain walked away, and the crowd dispersed like smoke someone waved a hand through, drifting in small groups towards their stations. Drew tried to get a glimpse of Karl or Sean through the moving bodies. If they started the day with an argument, it wouldn't bode well for the mission later. It wasn't as if Drew expected them to refuse to work together or for one to throw the other to the wolves if things went wrong. Both men were far too professional for that and not nearly spiteful enough. But he worried about the finer points of their teamwork: anticipating the other's actions, knowing how to best complement the other's abilities, coming to a consensus on strategy...  
The sound of someone clearing their throat next to him jerked him out of his throats, and Drew rose a hand to the edge of his helmet when he saw it was the captain. "Drew," The man asked in his gruff tones. "How goes it?"  
Drew tried to process the question. "The trucks or the upcoming mission sir?"  
"Both." Captain Kelson was a veteran of the first Great War and a careful man, with deep-set, insightful blue eyes and a face as tanned, cracked and soft as old leather. Once a new member of the patrol got past the perpetual glare his wrinkles and sunken eyes seemed to give, he was a remarkably patient leader.  
"Rig 2's tires have been changed sir. Rig's 3, 1 and 4 should also be good to go. I'd prefer to take rig 4 to the next mission since she's got four-wheel drive."  
"Diesel is expensive." The captain grunted. "Be frugal in how you drive. I actually meant to talk to you about Markson and Fairburne."  
Drew clenched his jaw and stopped rubbing his gloved hands together as he sometimes did when thinking. "They don't get along well, sir." He answered honestly.  
"I'm aware. Make sure you impress on them that their rows can't affect the mission. I wouldn't give them this mission if I didn't believe they could work in tandem."  
The captain turned to go, then paused and looked Drew in the eye. "I heard from the majors that there's going to be a crackdown on drinking next week."  
Drew bit back a handful of swears. "I see, sir." He murmured, already considering new places to hide the still.  
There was a knowing twinkle in the captain's eyes when he walked away. Drew sighed and let his shoulders go limp.  
He walked over to where Karl and Sean were, looking each other in eyes, each refusing to look away before the other did. Brauer watched the silent exchange with a grimace and he briefly looked at Drew before looking back at Karl. Their position a few feet away from each other and identical glares made the differences all the more prominent in their faces: Karl's tanned and stubble-swept jaw and icy blue eyes and Sean's pale jaw, long hair and fiery green eyes. But their reactions were the same: like two dominant dogs in a pack refusing to share or give up their position.  
It occurred to Drew why the two were always tense in the other's presence - they were too similar by half.


	4. Chapter 4

"Sir, I don't believe it's necessary for both of us to go on the mission."  
Captain Kelson regarded Sean from the ramshackle desk made by an old table with a series of re-purposed tool boxes atop it. "I know that you and Fairburne don't like each other, but you can't let that affect the mission." He replied bluntly.  
Sean's hands, which he clasped behind his back, tightened their grip on each other. It'd be too much to hope that the Captain wouldn't pick up on that. "Yes sir, the Lieutenant and I have our difficulties, but..."  
Sean hesitated and cursed himself for letting his mouth get ahead of his thoughts. How could he explain it to his superior officer? Kelson knew, but that wasn't the problem. If he tried to talk about it, the words stuck in his throat like a tumor. He could he describe that? Talking about it felt like a guilty plea. Or defacing a tomb.  
"Markson," The Captain leaned forward, his voice losing its abruptness. "Fairburne is the best of the best, and we know what we're getting into. This isn't France."  
Hostility rose Sean's hackles. He gritted his teeth to keep back the words and closed his eyes to fight off the glare. _No, Fairburne isn't Davies, Hall or Roberts. But that doesn't mean they were bad soldiers! It wasn't their fault-  
Utter silence then utter noise.  
Aborted yells-  
No line of sight - no way to see-  
_The images snuck up on him so fast he had to grip the table to anchor himself back to reality.  
"Markson, get some sleep. Kelly will get you when the mission starts."  
Markson shakily nodded, then left quickly hoping his knees weren't shaking as bad as they felt like they were.

The sun in North Africa was nothing like the sun back in Yorkshire. The sun in Yorkshire was shy and meek, hiding behind clouds and damp fog or shining just enough to keep out the chill. Here it was brazen and ruthless, patiently scouring away everything in its path. Even the flag in their camp wasn't immune, the red-white-blue starburst pattern slowly turning the same eye-piercing grey-white as the sun's rays. Sean's skin fared little better, and he adopted a habit of taking night missions so he could sleep during the day when possible. It worked for him because of how well-trained his eyes were to picking out movement and detail in darkness - which could possibly be related to why the sunlight of the day felt like a stab to the eyes for him - and because it let him be on his own often.  
Sean preferred the company of his own mind. Even as a child, he found reasons to leave conversations with relatives as soon as possible and met most of his schoolyard friends through introductions arranged by his mother or preexisting friends. The thought of introducing himself rarely occurred to him, and having a stranger talk to him always felt like being put on the spot. He knew the men in the patrol - it was inevitable after living for six months in close proximity to each other, but he never made an effort to. Drew was always friendly, and Sean was now starting conversations with him rather than let Drew do all the talking.  
Sean found more reasons to talk to others since coming to the patrol. Too much time by himself was bad as of late. It let the shadows reappear, stretching like dark snakes across his mind. The fire every sundown kept them at bay, but they still slithered around the edges of the light it threw off. Waiting.  
Sean kept his head low as he moved through the baking paths between the tents. The day was in full swing now. Drew was inspecting the rig they'd be using for the mission tonight. Murray and Halliot were playing cards. Banes and Parker were out on a mission. Patel was unloading supplies from the main army headquarters. Fairburne, as usual, was nowhere to be seen; since Sean didn't see him, Brauer was likely with him.  
He stepped inside the dusty shanty where they kept their rifles and breathed out a sigh of relief. The rough roof did little to reduce the heat and the thin cracked walls did not muffle the sound of the rest of the base, but they obscured everyone else from view, if poorly. It was the one place on base where one had the illusion of privacy.  
Sean settled on a crate and watched the sun light shine in from cracks all along the walls and roof. It made the metal actions of the rifles blaze and illuminated the specks of sand in the air, shining like bits of stardust. The patterns of brown shadows and white light were good for reflection. It felt as though the world was limited to him and these walls. He leaned back and observed the slow patterns in the wood grain and the way the guns stood on their racks like soldiers standing at attention. A vein of blue-white sky was visible through the sloppily tied together wooden boards of the roof. Sean often thought that he had never seen such a bright shade of blue sky before North Africa. Clouds were more common in Yorkshire than clear skies, but he had seen sunny days there, and the sky seemed to be a darker shade of blue there. He wasn't sure why though.  
It came upon him quietly and quickly, and he felt it just before it reached him.  
The shadows were back.  
They crept in under the poorly-constructed walls of the gun shack, reaching with dark fingers. Sean felt them around his throat, cutting off his air. He gasped for air and diaphragm hitched on every one. The panic coursing through his veins wouldn't let him use any of the techniques his instructors taught him when he was first learning how to be a sniper. He couldn't count breaths or hold them; they got away too easily.  
Sweat that had nothing to do with the heat ran into his eyes. His heart pounded in his ears.  
 _No enemy,_ he told himself. _No enemy.  
_ It didn't work.  
Time slowed to a crawl.  
When the last of it was over, Sean got control of his lungs again. He took a deep breath and held it until his lungs ached before exhaling completely. He did so again, and again, until he could no longer feel his pulse in his neck.  
The shadows slunk away, leaving him. He looked around the shanty. Nothing, nothing, nothing.  
Sean groaned and rested his head in his hands. _That was a bad one._  
The "attacks" often came upon him when he was alone and with little to occupy himself with. That was a true blessing; they'd never interfered with his missions, but he feared the day they would. What would he do then?  
They showed up with no warning, which was the baffling thing. There was nothing specific that seemed to trigger them; they just showed up. They'd last only a few minutes and then he'd be shaken, but fine. The only real aftermath was drying his sweat and dealing with another night without sleep.  
They held off any attempt to control them.  
Sean growled and wiped his hands on his dusty trousers. The shack now felt suffocating, but he loathed going outside to face the rest of the patrol. He wiped his face and raked a hand through his hair loathing how sweaty it felt.  
He started when the door opened.  
"Sorry," Drew said with a rueful smile. "I was just going to say that we're leaving in a few hours' time. If you want to eat, now is the time." With that, Drew's blond head disappeared.  
There was nothing Sean felt less like doing than eating, but it was better than being distracted by hunger later. The quality of their rations didn't help. If he ever ate corned beef again in his life after leaving the army it would be a lifetime too soon.  
After choking down his rations in the relative privacy of his tent, he sat and waited. It seemed they were always waiting. That was the one thing he hadn't been told about war: the long periods of nothing between short moments of blinding movement and frenzied activity. He'd had a book, but he couldn't find it now.  
The sun turned orange like a melting candle, shivering in the heat on the horizon. This time of day was most bearable, when the heat faded but the chill of night hadn't set in. It was no coincidence that all their meetings took place at twilight.  
Sean found himself thinking about the attack earlier. He'd never had two in a day or one during a mission, so his worries didn't have much bearing. At least he like to think so. But they were always more frequent when he wasn't undertaking missions. Hopefully he had a few days' grace after tonight's mission. He hoped so. There was little aside from the Nazis themselves that he hated as much as he hated those attacks. He hated the loss of control, the unbearable and infuriatingly _unfounded_ fear. He hated how they appeared at random. He hated how they corrupted his quiet times of reflection.  
The sun dipped lower as he stewed, the upper reaches of the pale blue sky turning deep cobalt. When it began to change to a dark purple as the last of the sun's light faded, Fairburne came.  
Fairburne was as quiet as a desert cat, as always, and he appeared quickly in the tent's opening.  
"It's time to go." His Berlin accent was almost indistinguishable among the words. Then he left as fast as he came.  
Sean scoffed and grabbed his Lee-Enfield, his Sten and his Webley revolver.  
Just like Fairburne, few words and not a trace of warmth in them. Sean could blame him for being a kraut, and thus being cold, but Sean felt that Fairburne's stiff and silent manner was just him. Fairburne was a superb soldier: he was, as the Captain put it, the greatest sniper in Africa; he was quick and strong in hand-to-hand, skilled in sabotage, quick-thinking, fearless, and completely loyal to his orders. But Sean had to wonder sometimes if there was a man behind the soldier at all. If there was, only Brauer had seen him. He hardly ever spoke, and when he did it was related to business. He embodied the ideal of all work and no play.  
It wasn't this insistence on focusing on the war effort that rubbed Sean the wrong way so much as his manner. Fairburne actively avoided talking to others, and scowled as if offended if spoken to by anyone other than Brauer, Drew or the Captain. He talked more during the gatherings, but that was usually after being prompted. He was the Desert Ghost, and he lived up to the nickname even surrounded by allies, hovering silently in the background.  
Fairburne was adjusting his scope at the back of the rig, which sat dramatically outlined by the last of the sun's light. Drew waved him down from the driver's seat. "Both of you get in." Drew's tone was cool and professional and his normal, easy-going lilt was subdued. Fairburne picked up his rifle and walked around to the backseat without acknowledging Sean. Cold bastard.  
Sean gritted his teeth and jumped into the seat next to Drew's.


	5. Chapter 5

The engine of the truck made a pleasantly steady humming noise as the vehicle sped towards their destination. Karl had checked his equipment repeatedly, and had no ability to start a conversation - and besides, they needed no distractions.  
Drew was completely focused on the road, as was Markson, possibly; Karl only saw the back of his head. The silence was no longer uncomfortable, but the sound of engine and spin of the tires was dull even if it was soothing.  
Karl looked to the stars.  
There was a thick cloud cover with a distant rumble of thunder from a storm nearer the coast. It was the sort of night that Karl had loved as a boy, and he'd sit in front of his townhouse's great bay window and feel comfort in the soft grey clouds and the sound of the rain, while marveling at the might of the lightning and wind. Now he thought of the weather mainly in terms of how it would affect his ability to work. The wind would likely be blowing their way since they were approaching from the south, and he'd need to compensate for the increase in drag for each shot. Staying up at the highest cover would probably be unwise too, given the lightning. He could work with these conditions; perhaps even get an advantage by using them.  
Still, Karl wished it would part just for a moment, so he could observe the stars. Star gazing had become his nighttime hobby whenever sleep eluded him.  
The night sky in North Africa was blue-black, with more stars than a man who grew up in the city thought possible. It was unreal when he first saw it - there were so many stars that the sky looked crowded. In the center of it all was a bright off-white band of stars and gases. The Milky Way. The last time he'd seen it, it was the summer of his ninth birthday, and he and the rest of his family were shacked up in a cabin in the forest by a lake. He was surprised when his father identified it as the Milky Way; he'd expected it to be pure white, he supposed, not splotched with dark brown and black.  
Karl wished he had a book on constellations so he could learn where they were, but it was doubtful he'd find that here. Perhaps he could write to Odele, and ask her to send him one. But...  
He hadn't written to his sister in months. Her letters rested, open and read, in a box beneath his cot, along with a stack of blank letter paper he hadn't touched. Her letters had gotten increasingly aggravated over his lack of response in the past few weeks, and he'd been getting them more often; if there was one trait he and his little sister shared, it was persistence. He couldn't quite explain why he hadn't written back. Work, uncertainty, disconnect, not knowing what to say... it was all of those things and none of them. He'd sat frozen in his seat for over an hour until he was called up for a mission when he first tried. As time passed and he put it off, the gap between him and the pen grew larger and larger until it felt insurmountable. What could he say after months of silence?  
He knew that he should write to his sister, and to pass on his words to his parents, to assure them that he was still alive halfway across the world and to give them something to remember him by should a lucky artillery strike or enemy sniper find him. He needed to talk to them, even if it was just through paper. But talking had never been his strong suit.  
Karl felt his thoughts weighing him down into his seat, so he shook his thoughts off and carefully locked them away in the back of his mind.  
He reevaluated his surroundings.  
Drew was leaning forward and watching the road even more carefully, likely looking for their stop.  
Markson tensed and relaxed periodically. It looked like a nervous tick.  
Drew stopped in a gorge by a tall rock formation. "This is as close as I get." He pointed to the top of the small plateau. "On the other side is the camp. That's where the Tigers will be. Watch yourselves."  
Karl climbed out. "We'll be careful. You do the same, Drew."  
Drew nodded grimly, his lips together in a thin line.  
Karl met Markson's eyes. They were cool as ever, and slightly questioning: _Are you ready?_  
Karl nodded, shouldered his rifle, and started to climb.

The camp was set dramatically against pale blue sand dunes with a thunderstorm rolling in the distance. On the left side was the former village; mud-brick homes, one two-story having a radio antenna. On the right, past a series of tents, were the Tiger panzers, nestled safely between tents, sandbags and mud-brick buildings.  
Markson crouched down next to him. "What do you make of it?"  
Karl pointed at the radio tower. "We ought to take care of that first and eliminate any chance of them calling for reinforcements."  
"I brought the satchel charges. If we time it right we can lure them over to the area and sneak in while they're distracted."  
Karl grimaced. "We need to save the satchel charges."  
"It'll distract them and lure them away from the panzers. Do you have a better idea?" Markson scowled at him.  
"How many satchel charges do we have?"  
"Five. At least one extra. And if I'm right, the Germans will have those tanks unsecured. I could clear the area and climb in one. Test how much firepower they really pack."  
"You'll get killed." Karl deadpanned.  
"All job hazards." Markson replied drily. "I said I'd clear the area first didn't I? Look-"  
He waved his arm across the area. "Lots of places to hide and hide bodies. I can go in with a knife and pistol while you cover me."  
"Reckless. Are you sure? I don't have the widest view here."  
"I have the best vision at night of anyone in the camp. My hand-to-hand skills are second only to Murray's. I know how to set up a satchel charge." Markson snapped. "I'm not helpless Fairburne."  
"I was never accusing you of being helpless. I just think we need a safer plan."  
"Bloody hypocrite. You charged into Fort Rifugio with no back-up."  
"I didn't have a choice with Rifugio. A team would've been seen sneaking in." Karl muttered his patience with the other sniper thinning. "I've never been on a mission with you Markson. I don't know how you act on the ground."  
"I'm not going to charge in the path of a panzer. I take risks Fairburne, but they're _calculated_ risks." Markson stood, but not completely, so he wasn't sky-lined against the rocks. "I'm going in. Relax, I won't ruin your perfect record."  
Not wanting to wait any longer but unwilling to let Markson go just like that, Karl stopped him. "Wait," Markson turned around and scowled. Karl handed him his Welrod and a pouch of ammunition for it. "Careful, it's only one shot."  
Some of the aggravation eased out of Markson's face. "Thanks." He replied sincerely before heading the rest of the way down.

Sean eased down to the sand. He felt more secure with a silenced pistol but not as comfortable as he would've felt up high with his rifle. Still, he was suited for this part of the mission, so he'd do it.  
And Fairburne might be Fairburne, but he wasn't going to risk him down here. The shadows felt close here, so Sean pushed all his thoughts away.  
He currently was in a bad position: his only cover was a stack of crates just outside the village, and there was a guard patrolling closer and closer to him on the right. On the left but farther away another guard was getting close, and soon he'd be close enough to see Sean slip outside even in the dark.  
Sean dropped to his belly and watched the guard on the right. As he got closer, Sean carefully slipped around the corner of the crates. He looked up the cliffs to where Fairburne was about. He gestured to the guard.  
On the next thunder roll, the guard jerked and fell as half of his face suddenly blew off.  
Sean slipped around to the other corner, so if the other guard saw and came over to investigate Sean would be behind him.  
Sean gestured to the other guard.  
He listened carefully in the thunder for the more sudden and slightly louder crack of the rifle. When he thought he'd heard he peeked around to the other side. The guard lay dead, hidden by darkness and the small ridges and hills of sand around him.  
Sean looked back to the village, which was bisected by a wide creek. His objective laid on the other side, and unless he was to swim across with all of his equipment his only option was to cross almost five meters of open, cover-less ground right next to two buildings, at least one of whom he could see guards in.  
Two guards were in the unfinished outbuilding to the right of the complete one.  
He saw the first guard in the shadow of the outbuilding's timber frame fall, then the second a moment later.  
It was good shooting; fast, accurate and hidden by the thunder rolling, but Sean had no time to dwell on it.  
He moved up against the white-washed wall of the repaired building, which thankfully had no windows. He kept against it, close as a shadow, before moving back, behind a truck parked on the bridge. When he looked at the truck, he saw a dead guard inside. Good, quiet shooting.  
When he was able to look around the front tire of the truck he ducked back. From the truck to the nearest building to his left, there was a wide open road. Almost five buildings faced it directly, and two guards were on the road. There was cover beyond the road, low fences and crates, but he was pinned until Fairburne shot the guards.  
Sean took the moment hidden behind the tire to examine the Welrod.  
It was plain and rough with no serial numbers to identify its country of origin. The barrel was nearly as thick as the grip, which made it look top-heavy and awkward. Like Karl had said it was a bolt-action. Atop the barrels was a pair of sights with fluorescent paint; useful since Sean knew that the gun was useless against any target farther than ten meters.  
He checked carefully. He could only see one guard. As he watched, blood erupted in a dark spray from the guards head, and he fell back into the sand.  
Sean ran to the building to his left, sliding the last few meters.  
He crushed himself against the wall, holding his breath, trying to hear over his own heart for footsteps.  
There was nothing but a rumble of thunder, accompanied though he couldn't hear it, by the crack of his teammate's rifle.  
He let out a breath and peeled away from the stone wall.  
The building could be a small storage shed, but all the supply crates were scattered outside, a boon for him. Sean crouched behind one, and then moved as quickly as he could while crouching to another, listened for alarms, then repeated the pattern.  
It was in this slow, stop-and-go method that he reached the door unseen.  
As soon as he reached it Sean dug into his pockets for his lock picking kit. He glanced back to the small road before the radio tower and saw newly dead guards.  
Sean looked at the lock. It was nothing complex, built into the door. He inserted the tension wrench, and carefully turned it both ways, feeling for which had more give. Once he had a good angle, he inserted the pick and raked it along the inside the lock. He found the most stubborn pin and released some of the tension on the cylinder so he could push it up. He kept the pressure for the remaining pins until he felt the last one slide into place. He allowed himself a grin as he turned the wrench and the lock clicked open.  
He had the Welrod up when he opened the door, but no guard turned to face him or came rushing down the stairs.  
The floor room of the house was much like any other house he'd been in in occupied North Africa. There were carpets in dark colors and endless patterns covering the stone floor, cushions in lieu of stools or chairs, and low tables. There was a bookshelf on the far wall which drew Sean's eyes.  
He continued crouching before he turned to the stairs, mindful of the windows.  
The second floor had a dead guard slumped against a desk. His blood turned the papers red and stained the cheap wood the color of mahogany. Sean followed the trail the bullet would've taken out the open window.  
The only other guard was likewise dead on the roof, and a more immature part of Sean's mind was put out by the other sniper taking every potential kill from him. But the rest of him was a soldier and he focused on the task ahead. The radio equipment was set up on the west side against the antenna. Sean decided to set the charge against the antenna itself.  
Once it was in place, before he started it, he stood and gestured to Fairburne's direction.  
He set the charge, and ran.


	6. Chapter 6

Sean's heart was in his throat as he dove for cover.

He slid to a halt inside the stone shed and crouched against the wall-

 _BOOM-KRASSHH_

The night air was lacerated with crashing debris and alarmed shrieks. One hunk of debris smashed against the wall of his cover and for one suspended heartbeat he though the stacked stone wall would collapse. But amazingly, it held.

In between the aftershocks and curses Sean heard rifle shots and smiled to himself. He loaded the Welrod and looked out.

The Afrika Korps soldiers ran about madly or took cover facing the former radio tower. Sean saw two of them drop from Fairburne's shots within seconds of each other. They seemed oblivious to Fairburne's presence however, with noise drowning out his shots and plenty of bodies around already from the shrapnel produced by the explosion.

" _Find him!_ " A sergeant screamed. " _Goddamn it, FIND the bastard that did that!_ "

Sean saw soldiers that were in the tent camp across the stream sprinting across the bridge, shouting. " _What is it? What the hell happened?_ "

If he waited until they were all across he would have a clear way back through the camp and to the panzers.

Sean slipped out the other side and laid a trip mine just outside his hide-out's other entrance. He took position on his belly at the entrance facing the bridge and waited.

Five, six, eight, twelve, sixteen, twenty; there were far more men in the camp than he'd assumed. But he saw Fairburne shooting the stragglers and those foolish enough to get separated from their teammates.

Once no soldiers had crossed it for a bit, Sean climbed himself back into a crouch.

At that moment he heard a truck pull up nearby.

 _Shit._

He looked around the entryway. A military truck pulled up in the main road through the town. Three men and a major who demanded to know what was going on climbed out. All eyes were on them, so Fairburne couldn't take any of them out without revealing his position.

Sean looked around, trying to look for an alternate route. Nothing. He had to wait again, every second increasing his risk of being found. He looked at the boxes about the shed again, and the bridge.

 _If I go prone and stay behind cover, I might be able to make it halfway, and run the last distance when I'm past the bridge._ Sean thought. It wasn't a safe idea; if one of them looked his way he was done for, but the krauts were getting closer and closer to his position.

One ran past the shed close enough that Sean could hear his canteen rattling. It made the decision for him.

He crawled out, agonizingly slow, staying behind the crates and debris. The sand sloped down to the creek on a heavy decline, and when he reached it Sean slipped behind the swell. He got to his feet on the bridge.

Once his feet were on sand again, he dove behind the building Fairburne had cleared.

He heard no voices behind him, only the racing of his own blood through his ears. He sighed and pulled out the Welrod again.

He moved quickly behind a rock near the largest tent. Sean looked around the corner and saw the guards moving toward the disaster, muttering: " _What the hell's wrong now?_ "

Seeing no guards in the tent, Sean moved in fast, and was then behind the tent, and into the second part of the camp.

Karl swore under his breath.

The mission was panning out well enough, but Markson seemed determined to get himself killed.

Not only with jumping through a second story window to get clear of the blast sooner (fat lot of good it would have done him if he'd broken his legs in the fall), but rushing into areas Karl hadn't cleared yet. And now he wasn't giving Karl time to move into a new position.

He ran down, looking to see that the camp was completely free of guards (and it was). He raced through the flaps of the back of the tent, knowing that each second he wasn't in a good position was one where Markson had no cover. He found a spot immediately on a slightly elevated rock formation just behind the tent that overlooked most of the motor pool.

He left a trip mine behind him for any followers and lay on his belly with his rifle and set to work again.

Markson had already shot two men with the Welrod and dragged their bodies behind cover before getting behind the nearest panzer, where he set the first charge. For a heart-stopping moment Karl thought the fool would light the charge immediately, but Markson instead moved to new cover closer to the panzer that was farthest from them, and slightly hidden by a canopy shielding another panzer.

 _Bastard; determined as you are, you won't die on my watch._ Karl thought.

It seemed that Markson's plan was designed to be finished by the final stroke; he'd set the charges on all of them first but would then only arm one and get to cover before it set off a chain explosion, or to not light any and instead set off the gas tank nearby and let that set off the chain explosion after getting to cover. Karl's considerations for the plan therefore required figuring out whether or not Markson needed him to shoot the tanker. It was safer for both of them in the long run if he did - Markson would theoretically have more time to get to safety. But after his previous behavior Karl doubted that he'd leave himself enough time. If Markson made a suicidally close run, there wouldn't be much Karl could do from his position.

As he considered these things, he watched the troops move through the motor pool. They were agitated, judging from their haste and how closely they gripped their guns, but were paying less attention to any cover spots where Markson could hide as a result. They were concentrated on the eastern side opposite Markson and the panzer he'd set the charges on. Four men who were all clustered together closely enough that they all had a good view of each other, wandered the center of the motor pool where crates of supplies were scattered about sandbag defenses. No way could he shoot them without the others realizing his presence.

There was, however, another man patrolling along the edge of the house that separated the supply crates and second from the third panzer. An easy shot, all he had to do was time it during a thunder roll. Karl watched Markson while slipping glances to the spot where the patrolling soldier was supposed to emerge.

He had to admit that for all his recklessness Markson was good. He was utterly silent, slipped through cover like a shadow, and dropped any man that got too close with pinpoint accuracy before they had the chance to spot him. Markson had no trouble affixing the charge to the third panzer, but the second would be trickier. For one, it was in the middle of the motor pool and surrounded by guards.

Instead of moving to the panzer directly, Markson retraced his steps back the covered space where the panzer was. He dragged a man he'd killed with the Welrod behind him and waited until the patrols were not facing him to drag the man out into the open before moving back into cover. Clever, but reckless.

The first patrolman saw the corpse. _"What the hell- shit, Neumann get over here! It's Schuster!"_ Another patrolman ran over. As he did Markson moved from his position past the corner and behind the last panzer, where he placed the last explosives pack.

Sean moved as quickly as he could without raising the alarm. The cliffs on the eastern side had a slope until halfway up and many ridges and handholds for the rest of the way to the top. That was his and Fairburne's escape route.

Once he'd made the last mad dash to the side of a house at the foot of the slope he looked back. Fairburne was picking his way back across the southern ridge overlooking the camp. He was moving slowly, and sticking to the shadows so closely that Sean initially didn't see him. _In the dark, look for shapes and movement, not color._ His old instructor had told him. It held true here, though Fairburne was doing an admirable job by moving so slowly.

Sean scanned the area, looking for pursuers. The patrolmen were starting to fan out in search of their enemy, but they were concentrating on the western side. A glint of light caught Sean's eye.

His blood froze when he saw the blurry shape atop the building that was behind the first panzer. He instinctively dove for cover, but Fairburne hadn't done the same.

 _God, he can't see that sniper from his position_. Sean realized. T

he shadows came back, with figments.

 _Patterson called out a warning, but it was too late._

 _Marg screamed when a stick-grenade hit Oliver._

 _The blast from the panzer made everything else seem_ silent _._

No _. No, that was then. Not now._

Sean leveled his rifle at the shape atop the building. Wind south by south-west, about five miles an hour; adjust. Spin. Drop significant given target's height.

 _Breath in._

 _Breath out._

Squeeze the trigger.

The crack of the rifle seemed to shatter the air. A rifle clattered to the ground from the top of a building. The patrolmen screamed again, thinking that they were onto their target. Their last words, but how could they know any more than Patterson and the others did?

Sean got behind cover and shot the gas tank.

He didn't hear the explosion.

His senses came back in pieces.

His head was throbbing.

The stars were blurred and smudged across the sky. It slowly rotated before his eyes.

He heard nothing, nothing at all though but he knew he should be hearing _something_ , but it escaped him what it was. He just remembered that it should be so loud that he couldn't just _not hear it_.

He tried to sit up, and his body obeyed him, if somewhat slowly.

His rifle lay a few feet away. Something was off with the barrel, but he couldn't tell what.

Hands grabbed his arms and pulled him backwards. He briefly panicked as he remembered that he was on a mission in enemy territory.

But when he looked up he met the slate-blue eyes of Karl Fairburne. Fairburne was yelling something, but Sean still couldn't hear him. He tightened his grip on his rifle as Fairburne got him on his feet. H

e started running up the slope when Fairburne looped his arms around him and started leading him up the slope. "Come on!" He thought he yelled, but he could only feel his vocal cords vibrate to know he'd actually spoken; nothing but a faint ringing sound penetrated them.

The sweat on the back of his neck felt cold. He could not hear enemies approaching or hear any warnings Fairburne might shout. A deaf sniper was as good as a blind one.

They had to get out. Go, go, go; get back to Drew.

They scrambled and ran up the ledges. Sean could swear that a bullet narrowly missed him and hit the rock next to his head. He nearly fainted with relief a second later when he heard, albeit muffled, Fairburne shout "Get down!"

Fairburne practically threw him over the edge once they reached the top, and the sound the pebbles made as Sean slid down a-ways was sweet as any music.

Fairburne grabbed him by the front of his shirt with a face like thunder. "You idiot!"

Sean stared at him dumbly. "What?"

"What? You nearly blew yourself up, that's what!" Sean hadn't heard Fairburne sound so angry since Drew baited him into the oasis and then stole his trousers, when he first joined their patrol.

"The rest of 'em would've heard." Sean explained. "So I took the shot before they could find us."

"They wouldn't have known where you were if you'd stayed quiet!"

"And let that sniper blow your head off?" Sean snapped.

The deep furrow in Fairburne's brow lessened and he relaxed his grip on Sean's shirt. "There was a sniper?"

"He was in your blind spot." A thinking twist appeared in Fairburne's lips. He let go of Sean.

A pregnant silence stretched out between them. "…then, thank you."

Sean smiled wryly. "I was doing my job. Same as you."


	7. Chapter 7

The wine was excellent. Karl usually preferred beer to wine, especially when it came to red wine, but this was truly exceptional. Medium-bodied, with a pleasant aroma of cherries, with subtler nutty notes. After, the gasoline-like taste of moonshine for so long, it tasted like a miracle.

Drew claimed it was Chianti, but Karl wasn't sure; all the same he couldn't complain, the red liquor just seemed to improve with each cup.

He lounged back in his chair, tired, pleasantly sore, and happily tipsy. Brauer laughed from where he sat opposite the table.

"Got the flush!"

Karl lifted his head to look at his grinning teammate. He didn't bother looking at his cards. "Alright you win."

"Whaaat? You're folding that easily? You don't have anything you can bet? Surely you have a good rifle you can spare."

"Brauer, the only way you're walking out of here with one of my rifles is if it's shoved up your ass."

Brauer just laughed. "Alright, alright." He leaned heavily against the chair, making it creak. "You sure you don't want to rejoin the others?"

Karl shrugged. "Don't mind."

After their small victory in Siwa Drew had seen fit to break out some of the wine they'd stolen from the Italian outposts. Karl thought that it would be more appropriate to save it for when he stopped Vahlen's _Project Seuche_ , but the taste of wine was pushing the thought into irrelevancy. It seemed to him that the gathering was more to celebrate Brauer's gallant rescue of Karl when he was pinned down by sniper fire. It was absolutely ridiculous really, straight out of a book - he'd just narrowly avoided being shot, and was pinned behind cover, tantalizingly close to his escape route. Then, out of nowhere, the gates burst open and out came a truck with Brauer on the turret, guns blazing. No subtlety in any of it.

"Hmm, we could play _skat_ , if we had a third player." Karl considered.

" _Skat_?"

"Card game. I used to play it with mysister and _bruder, als wir Kinder waren..._ " Karl reflected that he must truly be getting drunk, if he was slipping into German so easily. And his Berlin accent, usually vague, now sounded rather thick to his ears.

"Heh, you'll have to show me. Later. Right now, I'm drunk."

"Most people playing it in a _Stammtisch_ are drunk too, and it never stops them."

"Bah, let's just join the others. Maybe they'll be sober enough to play."

"I doubt that."

Both men rose unsteadily to their feet, Brauer using his bed as support. They staggered out of the tent and Karl started to realize how drunk they were. Damn, how strong was that damned red?

Brauer looped an arm around Karl's shoulders, which Karl failed to shrug off until Brauer waved wildly to their comrades at the fire. "We're back!"

"'Bout damn time too! Where were you Karl, we missed you!" Murray called.

"Hmph, no you didn't." Karl replied, without vitriol.

"Yes, we did!" Drew was somewhat drunk himself though he seemed far more sober than the lot sprawled around him. "Will you drink with us?"

Karl sat down cross-legged in the sand. "Card games?" He asked, recalling Brauer's suggestion.

"Were any of us sober!" Drew laughed. "Nope we're playing a drinking game. When it's your turn, one of us guesses something about you. If we're right, you drink. If we're wrong, the guesser drinks. Want to play?"

It wasn't really a question, in a way. There were too many ways this game could go badly for him.

" _Ich weiss nicht_..I don't know." Karl corrected himself at the last second.

"I won't say anything embarrassing." Drew promised sincerely.

 _Bless you Drew; you wouldn't, but these sorry hides would._ Karl thought.

Brauer clapped him on the back encouragingly. "I'll watch and decide if I want to go." Karl promised. He had no intention of going, but it would stave off the offer well enough.  
The others seemed satisfied, and everyone turned their attention back to Markson, to Karl's relief.

Not to Markson's though. "Go on." He growled at Banes.

Banes leaned in with a devilish grin. "You were mistaken for a girl, repeatedly, as a child."

Markson gave him a glare that could cut steel and drank.

A low round of chuckles went through the circle. Markson fixed his eyes on Banes.

"Banes, you got into trouble with the law."

Banes briefly captured the look of a surprised rabbit under Markson's fox-green eyes but recovered quickly. "Well, it all turned out but…" He grinned. "I stole the landlord's dog. Oh yeah! Right out from under his daughter's nose. I'd planned to give it back for a kiss but her father entered the garden. I dropped the yappy thing, vaulted the fence and ran the whole way to the recruiting station. And that's how I got here." Banes leaned back and drank from his cup, smirking.

"Hardly honorable tactics." Murray scolded. "For what reason could you not get a kiss from the lass like a gent?"

"I've no idea!" Banes laughed.

Karl rolled his eyes. It hardly shocked him that the ringleader of the oasis initiation would do such a thing. The patheticness of the gesture reminded him of his brother's efforts to win the affections of Sofia, the girl three houses down on their street. Clear as day he could picture his brother with a desperate smile on his face and a handful of forget-me-nots.

"Patel!" The Liverpool native leaned in smiling.

They learned that Patel used to steal fish, that Drew had never kissed a girl, that Halliot had (in a bog, no less), and so on and so forth. Then it was Brauer's turn.

"You grew that awful mustache on a dare."

"Awful!" Brauer exclaimed, offended. "Are you in any position to say that my facial hair is awful Murray?"

"Answer then!"

"You're half-right. My brother grew this pitiful scrap of heath on his upper lip when he was fourteen, and he didn't like it when I told him how bad it looked. So he bet that I'd never have better luck growing hair." Brauer smirked and rubbed his mustache. "And look how wrong he was."

This got a chuckle from the crowd. Karl smiled. When Kirstein had grown the first hair on his upper lip (the very first, nearly invisible) he'd rushed down to the breakfast table still in his night clothes to show them, much to their mother's consternation. Karl, being ten, thought it was history in the making and begged Kirstein to show it to him, ignoring their mother's complaints of unbecoming behavior from two soon-to-be-men.

"Well, Fairburne? Are you joining in?"

Karl's head snapped up to see Murray looking at him. "I suppose so. Yeah."

"Alright." Murray leaned on his knees, fixing Karl in an intense stare. "You learned shooting by the time you were ten."

Karl smirked. "Drink up Murray. My father refused to teach me to shoot birds until I was thirteen. And I spent six years begging him to teach me."

The entire circle drank. "Six whole years eh? You've wanted to be a sniper for this long?"

"Not really. I don't think I ever pictured myself sitting here when I first held that old rifle out by the lake."

"Hah! Understatement of the decade, Karl!" Brauer laughed. "I don't think any of us saw this coming!"

Brauer raised his cup. "A toast then! To summer days, pretty girls and shitty booze!"


	8. Chapter 8

Drew knew that something was wrong four hours in.

Ben and Karl could clear a camp in the span of two hours, tops. Something must have happened.

He waited. And waited. Fidgeting in the driver's seat, wishing he could get out and do something. Check the tires, check the oil, spit-shine the hood, anything. But if Karl and Ben came blazing through with panzers behind them they needed to make a quick getaway. So he waited.

The sun started going down, and he couldn't take it any longer. Drew shouldered his SMG and hopped out, taking the keys with him.

Kassarine Pass was further in, through the roofless tunnel of rock around him. Because Karl and Ben went ahead, Drew knew that it was doubtful that there'd be any snipers, but he was cautious nonetheless. He clung to the shadows along the rock, getting behind cover wherever possible, and scanning the top of the cliff before each new step.

He was unable to shake the sensation of being in somebody's scope and expected everything to go black and to wake up outside his dead body every second.

But he couldn't leave well enough alone. He'd never been able to.

He froze when he heard the sound of sand crunching under boots.

He crouched behind a wrecked Panzer Mk. III and cocked his SMG. The footsteps grew closer and closer, and Drew was nearly ready to leap out shooting when they stopped.

"Drew?" There was no mistaking Karl's gruff voice.

Drew sighed in relief and got out of cover.

His smile fell off his face when he looked Karl in the eye.

Something _was_ wrong.

Karl's eyes had always been sharp and focused, like an extension of his scope. His cold grey gaze was intimidating; it was like being pinned under a hawk's glare.

But now…

Karl's eyes were distant and unfocused, as if he wasn't completely seeing Drew. There was a look on his face that if Drew was to pinpoint simply appeared…lost.

Karl dug around in his pockets for something. And when he dug it out and showed it to him, Drew recognized it as a round from a Lee-Enfield rifle. Karl held it out, as if it meant something.

"Ben was killed."

That was the first time Drew had ever heard Karl call Brauer by his first name.

* * *

Karl felt like he was sinking into the seat of the truck.

That _look_ Brauer had given him before he died.

In hindsight, Karl could see it clearly. Brauer had heard the Tiger, and turned. He'd seen the panzer. He knew what was coming.

And the last thing he ever did was look at Karl.

What was that look? Karl hadn't been close enough to see Brauer's expression. Was it just a reflex? A last look at a friend? …Was it a futile plea for help? An accusation, because Karl should've been watching his back?

* * *

 _"Kirstein."_

 _"Mhm?"_

 _"Can you slow down?"_

 _"Can you speed up?"_

 _A twelve-year old Karl glared impatiently at his mousy-haired older brother grinning down at him._ _"Odette can't keep up." Karl looked down at his baby sister, who tried to glare at him despite being red-faced from running._

 _"Okay, okay. But only because Odette's having trouble."_

 _The trio resumed at a slow walk, along the shadowed sidewalk and orange lighting of the October sunset. Red and brown leaves rustled down the streets. Berlin was never silent, even in its up-scale residential parts. There was always some background noise._

 _"Mutti will be angry. We're late." Odette huffed, short arms crossed._

 _Kirstein grinned apologetically and tugged at the dark green scarf around his neck. "I know. It's my fault, so I'll tell her." He ruffled Karl and Odette's hair._

 _Karl glanced at the golden sunset, shielding his eyes with his hand._ _"Danke."_

* * *

He should've seen that panzer. He should've been more careful, more observant. He could've prevented this, he could've-

* * *

 _Berlin still wasn't quiet at night, but the noise was hard to fall asleep to._

 _After the Reichstag fire, after the wave of arrests and firings (including Karl's father), the propaganda films, the Communist Party of Germany was all but extinct._

 _But tonight the Sturmabteilung must have found some remnants, because the street outside resonated with the sounds of a street brawl. The Red Front Fighters were outnumbered and forced to retreat, and when the sound died down Karl pushed aside the curtains of the bay window facing the street to see the aftermath. There was one person still there, still breathing, and he was no brownshirt._

 _"Do you see him?" Kirstein whispered as he crouched next to Karl._

 _"Ja."_

 _"His wounds don't look too bad, but if the brownshirts come back…"_

 _Kirstein's grey-blue eyes' meet Karl's._

 _"Nein."_

 _"Karl…"_

 _"They might not all be gone! You know what will happen if they find you!"_

 _"Karl," Kirstein's eyes was calm but they were intense. "I have to."_

 _"Doch…"_

 _"You've always had the sharpest eyes, tell me if you see any of them." Karl turned back towards the window and scanned the street, paying special attention to any dark alleys where a brownshirt could be lurking._

 _"Do you see any of them?"_

 _Karl couldn't lie, so he answered: "Nein."_

 _Kirstein immediately got up, put on a coat and shoes and slipped down the stairs._

 _Karl kept watch from the window, fearing a knife-wielding man in a brown uniform would leap from the shadows the moment Kirstein set foot on the street. But nobody materialized._

 _Kirstein helped up the young man and led him back into the house. Karl rushed down the stairs and opened the door._ _"The basement." Kirstein said, and Karl rushed to open that door._

 _The RFFL member was about Kirstein's age, seventeen, pale and seemingly terrified of his rescuers despite not making a peep._

 _He couldn't be more different from the cunning and dastardly communist the Nazi party was always warning the public about, as Kirstein would later remark to Karl._

 _They did not ask for the teenager's name, nor did he ask for their's. To do so would have been a suicide pact._

 _They made a space for him behind the stairs and went back to bed._ _Karl was as anxious that morning as he'd been when Kirstein first rushed out. The man fled before the sun came up, but that was no guarantee that nobody had seen anything._

 _That day Karl dreaded the idea of leaving the house to attend school, and even considered feigning illness to avoid it. But Kirstein discouraged him, and they left, and later walked a different route home._

 _Nothing happened, so Karl relaxed slightly. If one of the neighbors had seen them that night, the police surely would've been pounding their doors down by morning._

 _The next day Karl stayed after school late and Kirstein was not home when he got there. Karl dropped his book bag and ran back out the door when Mutti told him._

 _He traced Kirstein's new route through the quieter streets…and found him._

 _He found the knife that killed him too._

* * *

Karl buried his nose in the scarf that had been his brother's.

He could've stopped Kirstein from leaving the house.

He could've spotted the panzer that killed Brauer.

He didn't.

 _Entschuldigung, entschuldigung, dies war mein Fehler._


	9. Chapter 9

Karl could count on one hand the number of times he'd felt nervous before a mission:

His first mission, his assassination of Vahlen, and now this.

He felt feverish, his mind wandering off on its own down dimly-lit trails stretching years into the future. He almost wished that this opportunity hadn't been afforded to them; that the eggheads in intelligence had missed it. They'd put the course of the war, the probability of peace, and the making of history in the hands of one quiet 20-something from Berlin and the rifle in his hand.

They'd put _his fatherland's future_ in his hands.

Every hour the consequences of success or failure seemed to grow bigger; he could succeed, cause a power struggle within the Reich and give the Allies a fast route to victory, and open his countrymen's eyes to the horrors of Nazism. He could go home with his family after the war to a hero's welcome.

His success could lead to someone more competent taking the reins, leading a successful counterattack, pushing the Allies out of Africa and ultimately back into Britain. He'd be vilified as the man who destroyed victory with a single bullet on one half of the Atlantic and the man who murdered the Aryan messiah on the other.

He could fail, and strengthen the Nazi party's grip on the mind of his homeland.

He could fail and die, leaving behind his elderly father, his mother who'd already lost one son, and his sister who would have to provide for them both. All without a single letter in eight months.

He took a deep breath, and held it before exhaling. He took another deep breath, held it, and exhaled.

 _I'm thinking too much._ Karl thought.

The brass thought that this was for the best and trusted him for the job. He had to share their faith. God, that was hard.

Instead of thinking about the ramifications of his mission's outcome, he focused on easier things, like technical details.

Scouts had reported a point along Tobruk's walls where there were no snipers. There was a motor pool directly below, a dip in the landscape where rocks and shadows hid most things at night, and minimal guard patrols along the wall. Most of it defenses were at the mouth of the dell in the sand, primarily heavy artillery. It would be suicide for even the LRDG's fast-striking jeeps, but a single sniper, if he was very, very careful…

Then he'd be in the city, and he'd have to contend with guards that were on edge and patrolling every street by the dozens. He could use the rooftops, but they were patrolled too. His target would be in the midst of the city, in a small café. Karl's evac route was directly behind it, leading out into the wilderness.

Meanwhile Markson would be going to an outpost miles away with Drew to lie in wait for either Karl to come back alive and successful or for the target to come through in his car. He was sure they'd succeed if he failed, and he counted on Drew to get them out of there quickly before the city garrison and SS could launch a man-hunt.

For the moment they were stone silent. There was a brittle stillness in truck, loaded and cutting. Karl hadn't exchanged a full sentence with them in weeks. Drew had tried (and still tried) but Sean and the others had given up after he killed Vahlen and still wouldn't come to the campfire.

Markson emphatically ignored him, still prickly about how Karl had brushed off his offer to join them last week, and likely upset that Karl had been picked over him for the main mission. There had been an almost child-like excitement on his face when they were informed of who they'd be assassinating, and it collapsed into a sulky glower when he was told that Karl would likely be taking the actual shot. Drew, on the other hand, seemed more worried mile by mile. His shoulders were tense and Karl suspected that if it wasn't so essential that he keep his eyes on the road (or critically, the lack thereof), he'd be constantly looking over his shoulder for them.

Drew stopped abruptly; making Karl's head hit the back of Sean's headrest. "Sorry!" He hissed. Karl looked about. This was his stop.

He got out with his rifle in hand. "Karl!"

He turned back. Drew was leaning over to look at him worriedly. "Are you going to be okay?"

It briefly threw Karl off. What kind of question is that? Why ask such a redundant question to a soldier? He was silent until he felt that he had a good answer: "I know the risks."

"You need a spotter." First four words Markson had said to him in a week.

"You were assigned to the other outpost with Drew."

"Hell, Drew can take care of that himself. The bastard will pass barely twenty feet from the hide."

"Somebody needs to drive the truck. What'll we do if he's cut off from it?"

"If you need a spotter, then I can go myself, Karl." Drew said. "Besides, I highly doubt that the target will survive both of you."

"It'll be hard enough to get in alone. Both of us will never sneak in."

"You need somebody watch your six while you're taking the shot at least." Markson retorted. He climbed out of the truck.

Karl had a flash of Brauer turning his head to look at Karl, and the building he was in exploding a heartbeat later.

"No. This won't work out Markson." He said harshly. "There will be reinforcements at that outpost. I don't want Drew facing them alone."

"You're wading into a sea of SS." Drew pointed out. "Alone."

"That's how it always is. I always come back don't I?" _It's just that Brauer didn't._

Drew furrowed his brow and sighed. "I can't convince you to take Sean with you can I? C'mon, mate."

Markson stood, glaring at Karl for a moment, and then got back into the truck without a word.

"Come back alive." Drew said before they drove off.

* * *

Karl got in reasonably easily, and found a disturbing surprise in the form of a Nazi officer who'd been hanged from the walls, ostensibly for pissing off the Fuhrer.

Otherwise he found no surprises; the streets were heavily patrolled, the rooftops also patrolled but not so heavily and there were concerns even among the officers that they were, in fact, being sent a double. Troublingly Karl found a note that seemed to support this: a soldier had overheard "the Fuhrer" boasting of serving on the _SMS Defflinger_ , when Karl knew for a fact that he'd been in the Bavarian Reserve Regiments.

But Karl had his orders; he was to assassinate the man who had come to Tobruk.

He found a spot in a rooftop garden that had a good view of the area and a good defensive position. He trapped the house he was on to make sure that no Nazi that might be in it could wander up and shoot him in the back.

"Oi Fairburne, what'll you do if you ever find Hitler on your mission? Shoot him in the ball?" Murray had once asked while they were around the campfire. It was a purely hypothetical question then, and Karl responded with a joke.

"Come on, Murray. You know that even I can't hit a target that small." The camp had roared with laughter.

It felt like it took half the night for the clock to strike seven, but Karl was only on his perch an hour.

The courtyard slowly filled up with SS and officers all that time.

He looked over the ledge when he heard a vehicle pull into the courtyard. It was a proper car, white and new, utterly out of place among the desert dust. All the officers that had been smoking and lounging about scrambled briefly, straightening ties and pulling away from their conversations to line up. An SS opened the door.

The target stepped out.

He looked exactly like in his photographs and also not, in the lifeless way that photographs were. It was so strange to see the real thing, even stranger to see, with his own eyes, the man who without even realizing it, altered Karl's fate so fundamentally that ultimately led him back here, with a rifle.

All uncertainties of the future and politics emptied from Karl's head like a gust of wind blowing leaves off the surface of water.

 _Da ist er._ He thought.

The Fuhrer walked past the line of saluting men without a word and settled in a chair at the table.

Just sat there.

Less than a hundred feet away from the end of Karl's rifle with nothing to obstruct the shot. Easiest shot of his career.

It was way too easy.

The Fuhrer picked up a little bell that had been sitting on the table and rang it.

A dozen SS suddenly leapt out of the shadows of the rooftops, shouting, guns going off.

 _"Wir fanden ihn!"_

Two traps Karl set at the entrances to the rooftops detonated suddenly, and one more was thrown across the roof, the cable between the explosives cut.

No time to think. Karl dropped his rifle in favor of his SMG just as the soldiers swarmed across the rooftops.

He clipped two before diving behind cover.

" _Sie können nicht vor uns verstecken!_ " A man who had the hoarse roar of an officer yelled.

Bullets whizzed over Karl's cover.

He reached for the stick grenade in his belt and hurled it over head.

The alarmed shouts went up before the explosion.

At the same time the door that Karl had trapped exploded outwards. He jerked his head up and saw a shadow blotting out the light from inside the house before it was suddenly moving.

He was tackled and slammed into the low mudbrick wall.

He later wouldn't recall his head colliding with it.


	10. Chapter 10

Karl awoke to a cold that bit his skin like cat teeth. It was punctuated around his throat, wrists, and ankles, where there were almost-warm spots.

Slightly warmer gloves against his bare skin.

He jerked violently, and half a dozen more guards mobbed him.

His face was pressed into the mud-brick floor, making him painfully aware of the throbbing at the back of his head.

" _Hold him dammit!_ " A voice snarled in German.

For a terrifying few moments Karl could not remember where he was, why he was there, or who was currently tying him to an examining table, naked and the back of his head sticky with clotting blood.

At the foot of the table was an unamused-looking doctor in spectacles, beside a black-suited SS officer whose eyes betrayed a cold anger.

He remembered then; hours ago - he thought, he wasn't sure - he was convincing Sean and Drew to let him go alone to Tobruk for their mission…

 _Gottverdammt. Fine mess you've gotten into this time, Karl._ He thought feverishly. _Excellent. Never once suspected a trap did you? Thought they'd just_ hand you _the Fuhrer. Now they're going to throw you into some dark pit where even the maggots won't find you…_

The doctor walked over. With no preamble or warning he twisted Karl's lip, making him wince and open his mouth. As soon as he did, the guards were back, wrenching his jaws open.

Karl coughed and sputtered and tried to curse. The doctor put on gloves before reaching into his mouth, yanking at teeth, nudging them, tapping them and listening to see if they were hollow. His fingers strayed close to the back of Karl's throat, making him dry heave and retch. The gloves were tasteless but foreign, and the guards' fingers were dusty and foul, with a grip that was much too tight. The skin at the edges of his mouth felt like it was splitting from how widely it was held open.

After a few minutes that felt like hours as Karl tried to make himself breathe with a hand moving in his mouth, the doctor withdrew with a murmur of, " _no false teeth, and no poison packets._ " The guards were slower to let go and his cheeks stung after they did, drool he couldn't wipe off spilling down his chin.

" _Were there any hidden weapons in his uniform?_ " The SS officer asked.

" _A few knives sir. Nothing else_." A grunt replied.

The SS rounded on him. " _Are you sure?_ "

" _Yes sir!_ " The grunt shied away like a dog used to its master's hand, curling against a desk and rolling his eye-whites imploringly. The SS still looked suspicious but didn't press further. The guard picked up Karl's uniform and his wrists and ankles were untied. He didn't have any time to savor the feeling of good circulation around his wrists, as the guards all cocked their guns and a few kept them trained on him as he got dressed. Sitting up made his head swim and made him much slower to button his clothes than usual. He barely had time to throw his scarf around his neck before two guards came to hold his arms behind him.

Against all sense, he just felt relieved that they hadn't burned his clothes, his brother's scarf with them.

He was marched forward, out of the room and into a courtyard. The guards on duty beside the doors tried to look disinterested, but their eyes kept wavering to Karl. He glared at them.

He pieced it together in his mind as they walked. _It's still night, so I couldn't have been out for long; the sun was going down when I saw off Drew and Markson._ Karl's memories after that were vague and shadowy, short images and sounds that he had to strain so hard to obtain that he wasn't sure that his imagination hadn't invented them just to give him an answer. His thoughts weren't much easier to grasp. _It all must have been a trap to lure out any possible assassins…possibly to lure any away from the location of the real Fuhrer. That they haven't killed me yet…must mean that they want to interrogate me._

In some ways, it was enough to make Karl wish that he'd bothered to wear the capsule with the cyanide pill in it he had, not that it would've done much good here.

There was no worse fate for a sniper than being captured. He'd be in for everything that happened to Brauer, probably more, because unlike him he wasn't valuable enough to the war effort to risk more OSS or SOE agents to rescue.

At that thought - that he'd be there in Tobruk, tortured until he cracked and spilled, then shot and left in a ditch with a dozen other bodies with no name, or kept until the war was over - panic thrashed in his chest like a dying animal.

He hadn't realized that he'd stopped until one of his guards jabbed him in the back with the muzzle of his sub-machine gun. " _Get moving!_ "

He walked again, faster, tightening his control over his breath. _Inhale. Count to five. Exhale._ Just like he did before a shot. It steadied his nerves, focusing him in the right ways while dissociating him from the act of pulling the trigger. He was alive. He was still alive and that meant something. He'd been trained for capture, for escape, he could handle it. He just needed to have a plan, to _stay calm_. Easy to think it if he didn't dwell on what was behind the door they led him too.

They opened the door and the first thing that struck him was the blood. It was dried on the floor, seeped into the wood of the blocky chair with built in restraints in the center of the room. The room was tiny, stuffy with no windows to allow escape of prisoners or the stench of old blood, and there was nothing in it other than the bloodstains, the chair and a table in one corner.

Karl was pushed into the chair, and the metal restraints were locked against his wrists and ankles. He pulled on the restraints to test their strength. They were rusty, but the joints didn't give, and the chair itself was securely bolted down. No getting out without a key.

He glared at the two remaining guards, who edged away. He was pinned, weaponless, helpless.

He hated it with every straining fiber of his being.

The guards took to muttering softly amongst themselves. Apparently they were either under the impression that Karl couldn't speak German (if so, he was quite happy to keep them in ignorance) or they didn't think that the contents of their conversation would help him.

" _Keep back_." One warned the other. " _Johan doesn't particularly care where that knife goes…_ "

 _That bodes well,_ Karl thought drily.

He eyed the door. It was made of much heavier wood than most of the doors he'd seen in the occupied villages and villas, and bolted. He'd need a key for that too. A quick look-over of the two guards confirmed that neither of them had any keys. He'd expected veteran SS who could handle the screams of a prisoner and the smell of blood, but they both looked alarmingly young, like they'd just gotten out of basic training.

The door burst open, and the guards jumped.

" _My apologies! The captain kept me awhile._ " The man standing in the moonlight spilling through the doorway was fresh-faced, pale, and rail-skinny, but had a genuinely cheerful smile. He turned to Karl. " _Is this our guest?"_

He was smiling, and it reached his eyes, but it was off. Or maybe it wasn't; it was sincere, and that was what made it eerie. Karl glared, keeping the other's merry blue eyes.

" _I have heard so much about you! No need to switch to English, I know that you speak the Fatherland's language fluently_."

" _'Du'?_ " Karl growled in annoyance, switching to German. " _I'm sorry, but I don't recall us herding pigs together._ "

Johan shrugged, still smiling. " _We'll be getting to know each other quite well in the next few days. Would you unpack my kit?_ "

One of the guards pulled a knapsack out from under the table and began unrolling it and laying it out on the table. Karl got a glimpse of gleaming metal. " _Now, most of its quite standard, but I have a few tools I made myself_ ," Johan said proudly, " _those, I find, work best for me. It's a great relief, to have total confidence in the tools of your trade when working. I'm sure you check your rifle regularly, right?_ " When Karl didn't answer immediately, Johan frowned at him, a worryingly convincing parody of concern.

" _Here we go!_ " With a flourish, Johan pulled out a strange device from his knapsack. It looked to be a small wooden board; on it were leather straps, one large one further down, and five smaller ones at uneven intervals. Karl figured out what it was for when Johann placed it on the armrest of the chair and he saw that it was about the size of a grown-man's hand.

Karl tried to pull his hand away, despite knowing its futility, particularly since the cuff on the armrest restricted him from moving his hand move than a few inches. It was a matter of pride, truly.

Johan tightened all the straps and fixed it to the armrest, completely immobilizing Karl's fingers.

The pain was coming; Karl could sense it lurking around a corner from Johan's smile alone.

But it was still a shock when Johan stuck a knife under his index fingernail and wrenched it up sharply.

The fingernail landed somewhere beneath the armrest, and in its place was a hot and stinging pain, not unbearable but worse than Karl would've expected from a relatively minor injury. He remembered, out of the blue, Odette accidentally taking a toenail off when she was seven, running on bare feet after letting her nails grow out. It had seemed like such a babyish thing, then, to cry over something so small.

Johan ripped off another nail before Karl could react, this time his middle finger. He hissed.

" _Sir,_ " One of the guards said cautiously, as if speaking to a wild dog. " _Shouldn't you be asking him questions?_ "

" _Oh, do shut up lad_."

With a few more yanks all of the fingernails on Karl's right hand were gone.

The nailbeds that remained bleed profusely, joining the strains on the armrest. His fingers were numb beyond the second knuckle but for the burning sensation of the nailbeds exposed to dry air.

Johan smiled, pleased. " _Easy. Now, before we continue, I'd like to know your name_."

Karl glared at him. He already the beginning of a strong hatred burning on his fingers, moving up his arm with a cramping sensation to rest hot and heavy in his chest.

" _You won't tell me? That's rude._ " Johan unfastened the straps of his pinning board before fixing it on the other hand. " _Tell me this then - what army group are you from? Do you know where they are now?_ " Johan slid the knife tip under the edge of his fingernail. " _How about this…what made you decide to kill the Fuhrer?_ "

Karl set his jaw. The muscles in his left hand wanted to clench and hide his nails away.

Johan tore off the nail. He held up to light as if it was a curiosity, letting Karl see the cuticle and blood still clinging to the edges. At the edge of his vision, the young guard with the hook nose was going pale and green around the edges.

The rest went off in quick succession-

 _-rip, rip, rip._

Karl breathed carefully, and would've clutched the armrests so his hands wouldn't shake if his fingers would work properly. _Come on._ He thought, trying to bend them only for hot pain to stiffen his ligaments. _It's only the nails._

"You're awfully quiet. Half the folks who come through here start talking by now." If anything, Johan's smile grew. "Looking to be a long-term guest?"

Karl's stomach clenched.


	11. Chapter 11

When Sean and Drew first reached the outpost, time felt like a bullet they were trying to outrun. Fairburne worked fast and there was no telling when the target would arrive. And it seemed that half the damn Wehrmacht was stationed in the area; it took Sean three hours to clear out the entire camp without raising the alarm. When he set up in a hide that had originally belonged to a guard (Sean kicked his corpse off the ledge), he expected Karl or the target to come tearing through the second he settled down.

Now time was syrup poured over a tabletop. He and Drew waited, and waited, and waited, and waited. After four hours Sean wondered what the hell Fairburne was doing, by five he started to worry that they'd been given bad information.

Now the sun was rising and illuminating an ugly truth.

Sean looked around to double check that no guards were coming their way to investigate and stood up. His joints weren't popping nearly as satisfyingly as he'd like, but he'd take what he could get. He saw Drew still sitting lookout in a natural ledge in the rock wall, drooping with exhaustion but still awake. He began climbing down the ladder. His movements seemed to jolt Drew out of his impending collapse, because he suddenly sat up. His sharp blue eyes followed Sean across the road to the obscured path up to his spot. When Sean sat down next to him with a done-in sigh, his eyebrows creased in worry.

"Sean?" There was such a kicked-dog look on Drew's face that he nearly lost the urge to say it.

Beating around the bush seemed easier. "Fairburne's never taken this long has he?"

Drew's eyebrows came down in a sharp V, "Once. On the mission Ben died on."

Sean rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Goddammit he didn't want to think of Brauer, not with the situation that was staring him in the face now. "He set up a grave for…for what was left of Brauer, didn't he?"

"Goddammit Sean," Drew's eyes burned with mixed dread and outrage, "he's not dead!"

"He vanished into that fucking city yesterday, and its morning and he still hasn't come through," Sean snapped, hours of tension unraveling like a cut rubber band, "Fairburne's a tough son-of-a-bitch, but he's not immortal. He's not coming back, Drew."

Drew's face closed off, "So we should just leave him?"

Sean wasn't going to say that; he planned on saying something among the lines of how they should sneak about and look for clues as to what happened the previous night. But it was hard to put into words without being vague as hell. But he wasn't leaving without finding some clue as to Fairburne's fate. Not to mention that there was no way they could approach the Captain without their target dead or any information on his whereabouts.

"No."

Drew didn't relax, but his posture lost its aggressive edge, "So what will we do then?"

Sean looked out to the rock face, looking out to Tobruk, remembering sharply its high walls and tall houses. Karl in there somewhere, dead, dying or trapped, and for all of the bastard's lack of social skills and refusal to hold a conversation like a normal human being, Sean couldn't stomach the idea of leaving him to the SS.

"We find out what happened." He said, his own voice sounding steady to his ears.

* * *

His fingers still ached and burned when he woke up. Karl sat up, his back unpleasantly stiff. The wooden bench was no more comfortable to sit on, but it was the cleanest thing in his cell. Everything else was stained from what very little he could see or smelled vaguely of shit. The bucket in the darkest of the corners and the poor ventilation of the room were the most likely culprits.

There was a clang from somewhere deep in the corridor, and Karl jerked his head up. Boots stamped towards the reinforced door of his tiny room, sparking his instincts to run or reach for his rifle. He stood up, but it was pointless; he could hear no less than six sets of footsteps and he had neither a weapon nor room to maneuver.

When the door opened, it showed, portrait-style with light shining into the dark room, a smiling Johan with five guards flanking him. "Guten Morgen." Johan greeted, like a friendly neighbor.

Karl was silent. " _Hungry?_ " Johan asked, " _I brought something for you_." He gestured to a guard, who came forward holding a tray. He set it down on the ground in the light that was thrown into the cell from the open doorway. Johan looked at Karl with an expectant smile.

Karl glanced down at the food long enough to see what it was - bread and a can of something with a tin of water - then in defiance of his stomach, lifted his eyes to glare at Johan. He'd be damned if he ate on the floor like a dog in front of these men, even if it had been a full sixteen hours since he'd last eaten.

Johan faced off with him for a moment, and then shrugged. " _I just figured that it make today easier_."

 _What's today?_ Karl thought immediately.

Johan grinned, a gradual unveiling of teeth. " _It's something for your back. I know you must be stiff_." He gestured at the guards, " _Come with us_."

Two big guards, young, one built like an Adonis with dark blond hair and the other freakishly tall and not yet grown into it, took hold of his arms at the shoulder and started pulling him to the door. Pride made him dig in his heels. Another guard scowled and walked over. He punched Karl in the solar plexus hard enough to make him see spots. The guards holding him dragged him out of the room and into the narrow hallway. T

here were two more guards at the door who silently watched them go past, and Johan opened the door. The light was blinding after the nearly black cell, and even keeping them open a sliver made it no less nauseating. The air was dry as North Africa's always was, and stained from vehicle fumes, but Karl greedily breathed it in. After the stale rot of his cell it was as refreshing as the forests Karl's father took him to every summer when he was a boy.

Karl was grateful for his boots as his feet dragged carelessly through the hard-packed dirt and stone. He still couldn't see where he was being carried to, but he could hear vehicles and chatter. Hearing German, everyday conversations in German for the first time in…ten years? God had it been that long already? He heard two men discussing girlfriends (" _You're still with Charlotte?_ " " _Yeah, she's writing from a farm in some pathetic little hole in the Rhineland_ ") and two more arguing (" _Shithead, this is the second time you haven't paid me!_ " " _You didn't win! You passed out!_ " " _Bullshit!_ ").

It was more surreal than familiar.

The chatter gradually died away, replaced by curious, apprehensive silence. Karl's eyes _finally_ started adjusting, and he realized that soldiers were breaking off their conversations to stare at him. The enemy soldier who'd attempted to kill the _Fuhrer_ last night.

He was led to a post set up at a corner overlooking the courtyard and his arms were tied around it. Johan started fishing around in his toolkit as a crowd of roughly two-dozen shuffled forward to watch. Johan pulled out a whip that was about a meter long and made of twined rope.

" _Strip him_." Two of the guards walked back over, and unbuttoned his shirt so hastily that they tore a button off. It was tossed aside. Karl eyed the whip, and kept his back muscles tight so he wouldn't flinch as Johan walked up to him, slowly, lazily, giving him plenty of time to imagine the pain. Johan smiled, and Karl thought he was going to say something.

Instead, he brought the whip down _hard_ on Karl's back.

It burned a stripe from his right shoulder to his left hip. Karl bit down on his lip so hard he tasted blood.

Johan walked around to get a different angle, and hit him again. The pain was worse that time, but Karl couldn't say if it was the new angle or because he now knew what to expect.

The whip stung again in the span of a second.

The pain was numbing, burning, and made his muscles twitch sporadically. Karl kept his breaths deep and even, counting them instead of the lashes to stay calm. When Johan walked forward and crouched down in front of him, Karl instinctively dropped his head onto his chest and tensed his shoulder blades up and together to shield his neck.

" _Does it hurt?_ " Johan sounded calm and almost compassionate, but too professional for it, like a caring CO. Karl grit his teeth. " _I just want an answer. If you can't answer them all, one will do_." Karl turned his head enough to glare at him. " _Which squad are you from? Are you an American or a British agent? Who ordered your mission?_ "

Karl maintained his stony silence. Johan stood and stepped back. The next blow didn't hurt as much as the others. The second one was worse, overlaying another and adding a fresh layer of pain. The third was like a brand. Karl clenched his jaw so hard that he knew it'd be sore soon. An itchy, warm sensation trailed down the lines of Karl's trapezius and dragged down his side uncomfortably. He looked down and around and saw a thin line of red gleaming as it dripped off his side. Johan's last blow had cut into his skin.

Johan had noticed too and he smiled, pleased. He brought the whip down across the cut. Karl grit his teeth and grunted through it.

Johan stepped over a bit for more leverage and hit him at angle with such force that the pain pushed Karl into the wood of the post. The grunt morphed into a gasp.

Johan hit him again and then again without pause. Again, and again, and again, and again, and again. The pain became a dull but savage burn punctuated by bursts of sharp agony. Blood started running down his back, and between blows the hot North African sun seemed to scald it. The blows of the whip made it difficult to breathe, like it was tied around his chest, not flaying his back and beginning to make his vision swim.

After Karl lost track of how many it was Johan was panting, and used the last of the energy in his tired arm to hit him with a blow that knocked him into the wooden post. It sent his head spinning and scraped skin off his cheek and jaw. He cried out, a long, high yelp that didn't sound like him.

Johan walked away a bit, breathing hard, and for a moment Karl thought he'd let up. He rested his forehead against the post and tried to draw air into his chest. Somewhere in the crowd, a CO was snapping at a few grunts, " _Listen to that! Fifteen blows before he made a peep. If you bitch about my training regimen—_ "

Jesus Christ. Only fifteen lashes and it hurts this much? For the first time, Karl felt fear, real fear creep in under his feet. Not fear that he'd die; fear that he'd break. And he'd already yelled out. What was to stop him, in the throes of mind-numbing pain as Johan progressed, to blurt out something to pause the torture?

Johan walked over slowly and crouched down gently, like he was approaching a scared animal. " _Are you sure that there's nothing you can tell us? Surely there's something—something that won't hurt anyone?_ "

 _Yes,_ a craven little voice whispered in the back of his mind, _is there something that will satisfy them at least for now? I know of an offensive in Algeria that's far away from Drew or Sean or any of the others…_

Nausea rose in his throat and he closed his eyes. He clenched his jaws together like he was trying to crack a walnut between them. Johan stood next to him for several awful tensely-wound moments where Karl expected it all to snap like a string. But Johan stood back, and Karl could breathe again.

Johan switched arms, and lashed him again. The pain was a shock, and he could swear that his back had just been ripped open. Karl howled.

He wasn't going to last like this. He needed something to grip since his hands were tied uselessly to the post and there were no words in his mouth to block any vital information that might slip out in a pained haze. He needed a focus.

Johan raised the whip above him. Karl found the nearest thing to remember. "Fairburne, Karl, Lieutenant…"

The whip came down and Karl anticipated it and turned inward to his words. "Fairburne, Karl, Lieutenant…" The whip was just as painful as before, but the words gave Karl something to pull back on. "Fair—Aggh!"

Johan was down by his ear in an instant. " _I'm sorry, what was that?_ " He asked conversationally. Karl stayed quiet, a little surge of false triumph going through him at having something that fortified him against Johan.

Johan stepped back with a patient hum. He raised the lash again. "Fairburne, Karl, Lieutenant…" The next blow wasn't as bad as the others.

" _Listen!_ " Johan cawed to the crowd. " _The Desert Ghost finally has a name! Lieutenant Karl Fairburne_." He crouched down next to Karl again, and grabbed his jaw, twisting his head to look at the crowd. " _Say hello Karl!_ "

Karl bared his teeth and glared. The crowd wasn't looking at him with a slightly superstitious awe anymore, like he was no longer a monster being ritually sacrificed for the continued wellbeing of a primitive village. He was just another POW unfortunate enough to land in Johan's hands. Another enemy of the Fatherland. Several had already lost interest, and had turned back around to continue their old conversations. A few had looks on their faces that made Karl worry; looks like a dog would give to a piece of meat on the floor their owner had given them permission to eat.

Johan flicked the whip so it hit Karl on the face, barely missing his right eye. It felt like Johan had slashed him with a hot knife. He screamed, and dimly heard someone in the crowd laugh.

Johan returned to his post, and Karl went slack against his bonds, until they strained his joints and cut into his wrists. Johan knocked him to the ground with the next hit, and hit his exposed side before he had time to get up. Karl had barely resumed his mantra before the lash came down again.

Each blow was delivered with all the force Johan could to compensate for their lack of precision from his non-dominant arm. The pain seemed to travel, pull deeper into his back, until it hammered his ribs and rattled his organs. He couldn't expand his chest to breathe, he didn't have the strength to get up, the bonds felt like they were on the verge of dislocating his wrists, _he couldn't breathe—_

He opened his eyes and saw spots, the world spinning, Johan's blurry smiling face, and then mercifully nothing.


	12. Chapter 12

This was officially The Daftest Plan Ever Conceived, Sean decided.

It was all Drew's idea, and clearly the 30 hours without sleep had gotten to him when he told his finished draft of it to Sean before rolling over to rest up. Sean let it be and tried not to think about it, because surely by the time his squadmate woke up he'd realize that they needed a real plan.

But no, when Drew woke up, he was even more confident in his plan than before. Apparently Drew was a fucking idiot and had always neglected to inform Sean of this.

They were going to die in that damn city.

"These fit," Drew said again, holding up the uniforms they'd stolen off two Afrika Korpsmen (corpse-men now) who'd made the mistake of patrolling through Drew and Sean's stakeout place in the valley.

"So?!"

"So, they won't look odd on us," There was such a fierce determination in Drew's eyes that he could only be sincere.

"That's the least of our problems!" Sean yelled, "What about papers, their identities?"

"They had them on them, and if we work fast we can memorize them by tomorrow when these men were supposed to show up for duty," Drew gave Sean a hard stare not unlike Sean's mother used to give him when he refused to practice his sums.

"What about their friends? Their squad mates? They'll shoot us on sight!" Sean snarled.

"No they won't. There are a thousand enlisted men in that city. They'll assume we're two of the hundreds of men they don't know by face," Drew quirked an eyebrow at him, "Sean, we've trained to do things like this."

"In those scenarios we always had meticulously crafted identities that we had weeks to memorize and men on the inside to cover for us!" Sean retorted, "This is a suicide run!"

"It's the only way to get Karl back," Drew's eyes hardened.

"There must be a better way. Let's go back to base, tell the captain. We'll plan a proper rescue mission," Sean reasoned.

"They'll never do it. Not for a city this well-fortified. If we go, they won't let us come back and that Johan will torture our squadmate to death," Drew took a deep breath, "Sean you know that."

Sean did. The brass would never agree, not with everything else going on. One soldier was a number to them. It was a face and a spirit to a squad. "There's…" He had nothing. They had one plan that was suicidally reckless, and everything else was condemning that squadmate to the death he'd rescued Brauer from. "We won't get any second chances. You know that right?"

Drew nodded solemnly, "I do. But I won't leave a friend to die if I can try and do something about it."

* * *

Karl slouched forward, finding it a more comfortable position to sit in. The wounds on his back itched and ached like the whip was still hitting them sometimes. This was how it would be. Karl was starting to think that the torture sessions themselves were only half the torture. The other half was in moments where he could think. Here the fear built up for the next session; here he had ample time to think over every decision he'd every regretted; here the boredom and isolation could drive him insane; here his injuries accumulated, until every inch of him ached or burned or throbbed.

He'd given in and eaten earlier, and the bread sat in his stomach like a rock, and he could swear it wasn't digesting. His eyes ached with need to sleep and the dull pains told him he needed it, but he couldn't find a comfortable position. Sleeping on his back or even his side was impossible the day after the lashing, and sleeping on his stomach bent his spine at a painful curve because of the cot's rigidity and lack of pillows. He was willing to give sleeping sitting up a try though; so far so good.

His dreams were filled with dark Berlin alleyways and shadows holding long knives that were always just out of sight. He almost thought he could see the faces of people from his neighborhood in them, maybe even Noah from school.

The first face he saw clearly was Theo's, also from school, the one classmate that his cousin Lange had said had joined the Wehrmacht and been invited into the officer's academy before all communication between him and the small bit of his family still in Germany went eerily silent. Theo looked exactly as Karl remembered him, sharp-faced and mean, with a sort of perceptive intelligence that was geared exclusively for acts of pettiness and ego-boosting. He smiled with teeth when he saw Karl, and held up his knife so the dim moonlight caught it. A thick red substance ran down the edge of the blade and onto the handle.

" _I helped kill him you know,_ " Theo said, sounding exactly like he did when Karl knew him.

Karl woke up still seated with a cold sweat sitting on his skin. He folded back anger and the bitter taste of regret with his tongue, and swallowed it down.

There was a clang nearby that made his head swim. He groaned.

Back already?

He didn't look up when he heard footsteps approaching and then stop in front of the door; didn't twitch when the door unlocked with a loud click and swung open with a feeble creak. He pointedly didn't look at Johan anywhere, not even his boots.

Johan grabbed his jaw and wrenched his head up sharply. When he saw Karl's glare he smiled slow and with a certain wryness and gleam to his eye that Karl didn't want to contemplate. " _Karl_ ," He drawled, drawing out the syllables, " _Will you have a chat with us?_ "

The guards —different from last time, had different noses — pulled Karl to his feet, the calluses on their hands burning like poison on his barely closed cuts. They were rougher than usual with him, more callous. He was dragged across the streets to Johan's "sitting room". It was the same room where his fingers had been ripped off, and it looked exactly the same as last time with the addition of a few more spots on the wood where his blood had dripped onto the armrests. He was pushed back into it. The woodgrain was agony on his back. He leaned forward once his aching wrists were locked in to minimize contact.

Johan was going through his regular routine of unpacking his kit. Karl distracted himself from the dread building up in him by taking advantage of the light to get a good look at his exposed nail beds. They looked at well as could be expected, vivid red and clotting nicely with nothing that indicated infection to him.

Johan pulled out a long serrated knife. The torturer held it up to the light and ran his finger along the edge of the blade, just light enough that it didn't cut him. There was something eerily reverent in the way he did it. " _Last time I used her_ ," Johan remarked, " _I was stationed in a POW camp near the sea. They had a British agent who'd infiltrated a general's staff, and I was tasked to make an example of him_."

Karl held his breath. _Couldn't be._

" _What was his name…? I can't seem to remember. Strange, because he was different from my other visitors. The only one that escaped me_."

Johan leaned down so they were eye to eye and grinned. " _You'd know his name, wouldn't you Karl? After all, you rescued him_."

Karl wanted to surge forward and tear his head off. He saw Brauer, grinning jauntily with a tin cup of moonshine in his hand, but still saw Johan with his eyes, and it only fed the fury growing in his lungs.

Johan saw the recognition in his eyes and gestured a little in excitement. " _You do remember! What was his name?_ "

Karl wasn't giving it to him; he wouldn't give Johan Ben's name any more than he'd tell him the date and time of the next offensive. That bastard had no right to it.

Johan fiddled with his knife, just barely in view. " _You know, I had more ideas. More…_ " he gestured in the air, fishing for a word, " _hmm, no, can't think of any other words. But I had more ideas of what I was going to do with this knife, all my knives, everything else in my kit. I'm always looking for more ways to do things. It all gets dull otherwise_."

He smiled, thoughtfully, " _Ah well. You'll do. I always have ideas I haven't tried_." He brought the knife back into view and turned it and looked at it with a deep affection.

When he looked at Karl and brought the knife forward Karl briefly feared it would be his face, and it was nearly a relief when it sank into the skin above his sternum. Johan dragged it down, and it burned all the way down, to his navel. He brought the tip of the knife up almost to his lips and looked at the cut from different angles, like a painter making notes on his model. He placed the tip of the knife on the underside of Karl's left clavicle and followed it until it met where the first cut began at the manubrium of Karl's sternum. With an approving, focused little nod, he moved onto the other side to make it symmetrical.

Karl gritted his teeth together and hissed through the pain. The _Miststück_ was making _art_ of him.

Johan grinned at him, briefly, viciously, then without warning cut into the lash wounds on his back.

Karl screamed, and it tore painfully out of his throat and he choked on the aftershock of the breath that fueled it.

The pain was burning, sharp, aching and throbbing all at once and made black spots splashed in his sight. His muscles involuntarily went slack as unconsciousness started pulling him under…

Johan stood suddenly and slapped him twice.

Karl shook his head violently, and the movement made the black dots remaining sway.

" _Can't have that_ ," Johan said, " _like I said, I have plans_."

" _Verpiss dich!_ "

" _Oh don't give me that. This is nothing_ ," Johan said as he wiped the blood off his knife with a small towel stained the color of rust.

" _Nothing?_ " Karl echoed, watching the blood pool in his navel before running down to stain his pants a wet, dark red. The wound was deep enough to scar, and it burned like hell. The reopened wound on his back was worse.

Johan packed up his kit again, and a poor, neglected optimistic part of his brain hoped that that was the end of it, but Karl quashed it even before Johan said, " _courtyard_ " to the guards.

They pulled him away from the chair, down the short steps down into the courtyard before what used to be the old marketplace, and again the men gathered in the courtyard gradually stopped their conversations to stare at him. It was a stomach-turning sort of déjà vu, like flashing back to a bad memory, and the aching in Karl's wounds seemed to intensify.

Karl was stood upright near the pole he'd been tied to the day before, and he resolutely chose not to look at it, not see if there were any bloodstains on it, not to think of how this would affect the healing of his present wounds.

Johan came down with a smile and a nod as a prearranged signal between him and the guards. The guard on his left brought his hand down and began undoing Karl's belt.

Karl stiffened; Johan's words, 'this is nothing' started to become clearer in meaning to him. His pants were shrugged off and tossed aside, along with his scarf and undershorts.

Karl closed his eyes and took deep breaths, counting them in fives. It was a little like the old nightmare in secondary school, back before he had nightmares that featured empty eyes and bloodstained uniforms, of standing in front of the chalkboard with no clothes on.

Except he wasn't in front of his classmates, but a few dozen enemy soldiers, and unlike his classmates they could do worse than laughing at him.

No-one was laughing now; Karl mostly heard awkward coughs. He opened his eyes just enough to see. Most of the guards were either pointedly looking away from him or unashamedly staring at his groin. Was it honestly such a goddamn mystery whether or not an enemy sniper had a set?

The guards moved suddenly, drawing Karl back with them into the post. This time he was tied upright, his back pressed flat against the splinter-filled wood. The last thing he wanted to do was scream in his naked state, surrounded by watching Afrika Korpsmen, but he couldn't stop it.

As he tried to suck air back into his lungs Johan walked down the steps with the knife. He stopped right next to Karl and leaned in so his teeth nearly caught his ear.

" _I know who you are._ "

Karl's gut swooped instinctively, but his head told him that it meant nothing if Johan knew his name.

" _Your father was the Weimar Republic's ambassador to America_."

The swoop returned. It meant nothing; Karl's father and mother and sister were safe in Virginia, and all the better that everyone should know that not every German bowed to the party line

" _So what?_ " Karl hissed.

Johan's reply was immediate, " _You're a traitor to the people_."

" _Not me. You are_ ," Karl growled, " _I'm here to save it_." The words weren't his most eloquent but they burned in his chest and it felt so good to finally let them out, after days and weeks and months and years of holding them in him. Of waiting to find somebody to say that to.

" _Save it by killing its people? Supporting its enemies?_ " Johan's voice was curious but light, idle almost.

" _I'm killing the men who are poisoning it,_ " Karl replied.

Johan stepped back, to fix Karl in a surprisingly piercing stare, " _Are you? Or are you killing us because the SA killed your brother?_ "

Karl's next breath froze in his throat. _How does he know…?_

" _Your old classmate Theo told me,_ " Johan said in the same quiet, disinterested voice, " _During a conversation we had a while back he mentioned having two classmates, both the sons of the ambassador. One of them got involved in the Communist Party, and Theo helped the SA cover up his death after they killed him. The younger brother, who escaped him, was named Karl Fairburne_."

Karl's glare directed up at Johan was nearly enough to kill. _So,_ Karl thought, a deadly calm like a lid on a boiling stewpot settling over his mind, _Theo was involved._

" _Where is he…?_ " Karl whispered, nearly able to imagine the bastard's throat under his fingers.

" _Surrounded by guards_ ," Johan deadpanned.

" _I don't care if the gates of hell guard him_ ," Karl replied.

Johan gave him a haughty look, and turned to the crowd. " _My comrades_ ," He said, loud enough to be heard in the entire courtyard, " _When we captured the Desert Ghost, we merely thought we'd caught a dangerous American assassin. We had no idea what a betrayal lurked in our midst_."

Johan certainly had everyone's attention now: all conversations had stopped, and all eyes were now on him. He paced dramatically in front of the post. " _The man trussed up in front of you is one of our own! A man born in the heart of Berlin, to a worker for the Weimar Republic!_ "

A shocked murmur went through the crowd. The men looked at each other and at Karl, reevaluating the man now that they knew his heritage, as everyone in their party did. There was a shout at the back of the crowd, and it ratcheted up the volume of all other conversations.

" _This most monstrous betrayal, a German with German blood in his veins, trying to murder the Fuhrer as he met with his troops!_ " Johan shouted to the crowd.

The crowd shouted back, angry now, bristling and shifting restlessly like a disturbed beast. The men in the front were red-faced with anger, two behind them writhing trying to get through, to Karl, shouting the whole while. The soldiers who weren't outraged were drowned out by those who were, who screamed for his blood and hurled abuse.

The whole courtyard seemed to be moving, ready to surge forward and rip him apart. The officers were the worst, screaming the most vulgar insults they could think of and promising him a grisly death, and encouraging their subordinates to do the same.

Johan walked halfway in front of him and held up his knife so it caught the light. The noise got louder, supportive and the language bloodier.

" _Cut his throat!_ "

" _Rip his goddamn head off!_ "

" _Kill him! Kill him!_ "

Johan turned towards Karl, a smile once again gracing his features, and the sun nearly directly above left his features in shadow.

 _This is it_ , Karl thought. He watched the knife in Johan's right hand. He was going to die in Tobruk, amid the cheers of the men who ought to have been his countrymen.

But the knife just barely sank into the skin, below the scabbing cut Johan made on his collarbone. It cut diagonally a short way then changed directions and cut diagonally another way. Johan pulled it up a bit before making three sideways cuts and a vertical one to connect them.

He was cutting a word into Karl's skin, above his heart.

By the time he started on the next letter, an 'r', Karl was sure what word it would be.

Looking at the crowd that was only really held back by the knowledge that Johan was hurting him was out of the question, but he was loath to look at Johan or even his guards, and the setting sun blinded him if he looked up. He closed his eyes again.

It hurt, everything hurt from the scabbed over cut on the back of his head to his exposed nail beds, to his lash wounds, but none of them burned as much as the knife currently etching his skin did.

Karl nearly locked his knees to prevent leaning back into the wooden post, but the pressure of the pain and Johan's grip had him going backwards. When Johan jabbed in the tip of the knife twice to make a dieresis, Karl hissed and leaned back into the wood. Splinters caught in his back. The barely healed scabs we scraped off. Karl clamped his jaw shut and tightened his throat to muffle the pained noise he made as much as possible.

Johan smirked like a schoolyard bully, like Noah and Theo did when they beat up third-years and then presumably later when in the HJ they graduated to murdering classmates suspected of ties to Communism. To the crowd, what Johan was doing was probably justice, or for a select few a bridge too far. To Johan it was no different than when Theo used to corner the school's smallest boys, steal their bags and bash in their noses. It was humiliation and pain as an end.

When he was finally finished, Johan kicked Karl in the groin. He yelped and bowled forward in pain, only for Johan to grab him by the throat and slam him back into the post, so his reopened injuries were in full contact with the woodgrain and his wobbly legs bowed out, leaving him spread-eagled against the post. A laugh went up in the courtyard.

Through it all, Johan grinned. Hot red rage flared and curled in his lungs, throat, and temples and between his eyes. A personal, spiteful hatred that he hadn't felt since the day before his family left Germany, and Theo met him shadowed by several of his fellow HJ thugs next to his house. Theo had flashed a knife and a grin at him and said, " _Don't hurry back traitor_."

Johan stepped back just enough so the word he'd cut into Karl's skin was visible to the crowd. It brayed in agreement. Some voices quieted, but they didn't last long as the most fanatical within the crowd started screaming for his death again, and the rest of the mob got louder with them.

The wound was burning with pain to the point where it was practically numb, and he didn't feel the blood running down his chest for a few inches. He didn't need to look down to know what it said.

Johan looked at him with a raised eyebrow, inviting critiques and comments.

" _I'll kill you_ ," Karl promised, wishing he felt more intimidating.

" _Maybe_ ," Johan replied in an equally quiet voice. He drew his hand across the wound, making Karl hiss before bringing up his hand so he could see the blood on it, " _but you'll always have reminders of me_."


	13. Chapter 13

The Daftest Plan Ever Conceived was put into motion that afternoon.

Drew kept a stiff upper lip and remained iron-jawed as Sean did his grumbling and made dire predictions, but privately he was just as worried. This plan was a long shot. In the dark. With a few thousand Nazis surrounding them. They would probably get themselves captured, tortured, and killed. Drew tried to look on the bright side, but as time went on he went from "However miniscule it is, we still have a chance of success" to "Well, at least our deaths will be a good cautionary tale for the brass: never send only three men to kill a well-protected dictator in a city swarming with Nazis, no matter how skilled they are".

When the blazing white sun crawled over the sky's apex and started down to the mountains in the west, Drew had a sudden premonition of how everything would go wrong: they'd be captured, stripped and beaten in front of Karl, tortured until they broke, until there was nothing human or self-respecting or thinking in them, and shot and thrown out in the badlands where the sun melted the flesh off their bones.

He took an overgenerous gulp of water which only unsettled his belly more and did not mention his sudden terror to Sean.

But by the time the day wore thin, Drew's mind settled along with his stomach. A strange, detached calm, as though he was an outsider witnessing all these events unfold. He still realized that he could die and die horribly, but the thought no longer disturbed him. He felt philosophical about it even. He'd had his hard spots, but overall, he didn't mind the life he lived. Dying trying to save a friend wasn't the worst way to go. When he looked at Sean he saw a similar calm quench the fear he hid, but Drew had an unpleasant feeling that it wasn't acceptance so much as surrender.

Drew had hoped that his fear had died completely, but the sight of the guards and the checkpoint at one of the entrances past Tobruk's walls disabused him of that notion. He was sweating so hard his grip on the steering wheel of their stolen truck was slippery. Sean was equally stiff next to him, like a rabbit frozen as a hunting dog bore down on it.

 _What if I forget my German? What if it's not convincing enough? What if something's wrong with the papers? What if these guards know the men we're impersonating? What if we take too long and the superior officer calls for us? What if we can't get to Karl? What if we can, but we can't find a good exit route?_

The guard had dark drooping eyes like a basset hound, which made him look even more tired and slow than he was. " _Papers, please_." He mumbled in German.

Drew practically shoved the stolen identity papers at him.

The guard barely looked over them at all. Drew realized with a shot of instant relief that they could've forged the papers and this man still wouldn't have noticed. The next question froze his blood, even if it was delivered in a bored and uninterested tone, " _Your names_?"

 _I know this one, I know this one_ , Drew chanted. He swallowed, "Hans Siedel, _sir_."

"Emile Pfeiffer," Sean said.

The guard grunted and shoved the papers back at him, " _You've got a bloody weird accent. Where're you from_?"

 _Fuck,_ Drew thought. He had no idea where the two men they'd stolen the identities of were from. And his native accent was already bleeding through…

" _Saxony_ ," Sean said suddenly.

The guard fished a half-crumpled cigarette out of his pockets. " _One more thing_ ," They both turned to face him, praying it was something that they could answer.

The guard smirked, his eyes bright for the first since they'd seen him. " _Your trousers are unzipped_." They both looked down and out of the corner of his eye, Drew saw Sean turn a shade of red that practically glowed in the dark.

He zipped up his trousers with a scowl and as much dignity as he could muster (which wasn't very much), and Drew collapsed laughing against the steering wheel. Their watchman finally waved them on. Drew found himself inexplicably liking him, probably because his laziness and juvenile sense of humor reminded him of Banes.

Drew was still laughing as they drove in and parked next to a line of other trucks. " _Shut up_!" Sean snapped as they did, his delay only brought on by his unaccustomedness to speaking German.

Drew stifled his giggles as they climbed out. Sean stopped by him to slap him on the back of the head, making his helmet slide down his forehead. He tried to suck in his air lost to laughter as Sean scanned the area with trained eyes. He took in the high walls, the guard outposts, the way the patrols guards lingered to talk or smoke and the officers eating in the little café in front of them. He gave particular notice to the narrow alleyways and the pathways between the roofs.

" _Let's check Karl's planned exit route. If he didn't reach it they might not have found it_ ," Sean whispered, only speaking in German in case whispering in English drew attention.

" _If you say so_ ," Drew replied.

Sean carefully observed the houses to their left. He nudged Drew and set off. His stolen uniform didn't fit quite as well as he'd hoped, and despite the silliness of the worry he still feared that its bagginess would give them away when they passed the officers. Drew watched the officers out of the corner of his eye, but they seemed far to engrossed in a tale about the incompetence of one Italian officer to notice them. Sean led them up the stairs and through an empty two-story house that had been repurposed as an office. He stopped at the window next to a desk stacked with two-foot high piles of paper and looked out.

"This is it," with a glance behind him to make sure they weren't being watched, Sean stepped aside so Drew could see the rocky path leading back to their rendezvous just beneath the window. The opposite wall of rock ringing the path was deceptively close to the window, and unless you stuck your head out and looked left you couldn't see the route hidden by shadows and bushes.

Drew sighed in relief. "Alright, we've got our exit. Let's find Karl."

Easier said than done as it turned out. They both agreed that avoiding conversation was best in case their German slipped, so they couldn't ask 'out of curiosity' where the prisoner was, and had no idea where he might be held. In the end they decided to follow a steady stream of men who looked like they were taking a break in hopes they'd eavesdrop on a conversation about him. The krauts led them through a series of shadowy alleys to a large courtyard, dark but lit just enough to see by from lamps and the little spark-like lights of lit cigarettes that gave the faces of the men smoking them a ghoulish glow. The topics of conversations were remarkably similar to the ones back at the camp: How's that girl you've got back home? Got any booze? Are you as bored as I am? Hey, don't you owe me money from that last card game? I'd kill for a hot bath. Fuck, it's cold tonight. Fuck that Lieutenant; I just know that he hates me.

It was like a carnival mirror, except with voices and words.

That just left him and Sean, standing awkwardly with nothing to do. Drew cursed himself for not bringing cigarettes. Hard to suspect a sitting and smoking private of being up to no good. They walked self-consciously across the stones of the courtyard, feeling that they were being watched despite everyone ignoring them, staying several feet away from everyone else. It was bizarre, and Drew couldn't get over it; being so close to their enemies. He felt like he was walking among lions.

Drew stopped dead at a sight that greeted them against a sunburnt stone wall. A solid wooden post had been fitted into the stones, and sitting at its base was a carelessly discarded length of rope. Blood, barely visible in the light cast by the lanterns, stained the stones around the post a red-brown. It was a whipping post, and if Karl truly was captured and not dead, then that blood was probably his. Sean stopped beside him, and Drew saw a twitch cross the muscles of his face.

There was a dark alley between the wall and the next building that Sean led him to. Drew followed, casting a look over his shoulder to make sure they weren't being watched. Hopefully Sean had an idea. A constructive idea, not a snide remark, since Sean seemed to consider those ideas. The alley was quiet, muffling the chatter from the courtyard with thick walls. The buildings there weren't used, and it was easy to see why; there were deep cracks in the mud-brick walls and in some of the foundations, and very little but the supports and rubble was left of the houses at the end of the street.

When they were hallway down the alley the buildings leaned precariously and cast even more shadows than normal, leaving it so dark they could barely make out each other's faces. Sean whirled around. Even unable to see his face, Drew could tell he see the way his shoulders bristled. " _What now?_ " Sean snapped, the anger in his tone not hiding the anxiety.

" _Now we find him!_ " Drew hissed back. He was embarrassed and frustrated and frightened of the hang-ups in his own plan, and he didn't need Sean picking it apart even more.

" _How? Sooner or later, an officer will see us—_ "

" _Looking for something gentlemen?_ " A cool, amused third voice said.

Standing in what little light there was in the alley was a man. They could make out a smirk on his face but no other features. He was average height, of average build, with blond hair that reflected the moonlight. He wasn't dressed like an officer.

Drew reached for the suppressed pistol at his belt, a spare Karl left them—

" _Were you looking for the prisoner? Or should I say, Karl Fairburne? You nearly found him, I'll give you that. If you're so curious…I don't have any guards to escort him yet_ ," The man smiled in amusement like they were children caught with their hands in the biscuit tin.

For a half-second Drew's head was spinning so fast with new information — who was this man? How did he know Karl's name? How was he related to Karl's imprisonment? — that he couldn't respond. But the instant his senses returned he dropped his hand from his pistol and said heartily, "Ja!"

* * *

It was really fucking cold tonight. It was always cold, especially in this dank cell and blanket-less bed, but tonight the elements seemed determined to kill him. Maybe that'd be for the best.

Karl had checked every inch of his cell, but there was no way escape route from there. He'd tried the holes near the ceiling to discover that they were the result of a dangerously unstable foundation, and the slope of the ceiling warned him that dislodging anything was likely to lead to the entire building collapsing on him. The door was too heavy for him to break open and no way to pick it from the inside. If he had any opportunity to escape at all, it was when Johan was dragging him out for another torture session. But he had no weapons bar a nail he'd pulled out of his bunk, and even if he was fully armed he couldn't take on Johan and his two guards of the day without one of them raising the alarm. Even if by some miracle he evaded all of that, he was in the middle of a Nazi-controlled city with wounds that made walking a challenge. He had no hope of getting back to the rendezvous. He was dead meat. The best he could hope for was freezing to death.

One mixed blessing from the cold at least was that it numbed the pain.

The door slammed.

Rage burst in his chest like a volcano. Hadn't he done enough? Did he still believe that he could beat something out of him? That he'd broken? Oh, he wasn't broken yet. Far from it. He wasn't going to break—that was his one remaining purpose.

There was only one set of footsteps in the hallway. Odd. Johan never visited him without guards. He knew better than not to. And the guards always brought his food when Johan visited. Other than that the other side of the door was totally silent. The key scraped into the keyhole, and there was a brittle click as it unlocked.

Karl tensed every muscle, reveling in the sting of his injuries and the way his skin pulled at them. If it was just Johan on the other side of the door he'd be ready.

The door creaked open, and Karl saw it in slow motion.

A familiar blue eye shown through the cracked doorway, a sincere and open sky-blue, not the heartless ice blue he knew Johan's to be. For a second he thought it was just new meat, but then…

"Karl," Drew grinned and all the tension in his face eased off, "let's get out of here."


	14. Chapter 14

The look on Karl's face was something that Drew would never forget. His mask cracked and splintered, revealing everything he was thinking beneath. His teammate's face had never been so open. Drew smiled from ear to ear and couldn't resist yanking the door completely open and pulling Karl into a one-armed embrace.

Karl hissed in pain. Drew withdrew his arm like he'd been burned. _Oh God what was I thinking? He's been tortured, he has to be injured._ He strained his eyes to see in the dark corridor, but couldn't make out more than dark, raised lines on Karl's skin. "Oh God, what did those bastards do?" There was a specific pattern of lines on the left side of Karl's chest that was definitely a _word_ that had been carved into his skin, even if Drew couldn't make out what word it was. But any number of awful possibilities sprung to mind.

Karl continued to stare at Drew like he wasn't sure if he was real or not, "Drew?"

"Yes?" Drew remembered that he was wearing an enemy uniform, and pulled his helmet off. "It's me. I promise. Sean's here too."

Karl blinked at him, and turned his head to see Sean standing at the end of the hallway. Sean smirked, his green eyes glinting cat-like in the juxtaposed light and dark. Then Karl looked at the crumbled form lying at the other sniper's feet. "Is that Johan?"

"That's the bastard's name?" Drew asked.

"Yes…" Karl limped over, back hunched from pain, revealing a spider web of scabbed-over wounds on his back. Drew walked with him, trying to avoid injuring Karl's pride any further by supporting him like a cane but staying close in case he collapsed. After what should've taken a few long strides but instead took a minute of careful shuffling, Karl reached the corpse. He kicked it over coldly, so the face was visible. Judging by the cold hatred in Karl's eyes, this Johan was responsible for most of the marks on his body and the pain in his movements. Karl glared at the look of dry-humored surprise frozen on the corpse's face, the wry smile that curved its lips slightly despite the blood that still flowed freely from the dark hole directly below the jaw. It seemed to say, "Well, you've won this round", as if even its own death was a joke.

Karl shook his head and looked at Sean, "You convinced him that you were his guards for the day?"

"He found us snooping around where your cell was. I think he took us for fresh meat who were eager to see Tobruk's most exotic citizen. We hardly had to convince him of anything," Sean gave the man at his feet a look of contempt. "We didn't know if he was actually leading us into a trap, so I put a knife in him as soon as he handed Drew the key. If I'd have known, I would've left him for you."

"You probably should've," Karl replied drily. "It's illegal under the Geneva Conventions to attack an enemy soldier while dressed in the enemy's uniform."

"It's also illegal to brutally torture a POW," Sean snapped.

"I suppose sometimes two wrongs do make a right," Karl smiled just the faintest bit; it was almost lost in the play of moonlight and shadow, "What's our escape route?"

Sean frowned and looked over at Drew, "Ask Drew."

Karl turned around to look at him, and Drew felt his stomach tense as the relief started to lift and the enormity of the city and the danger they were in was impressed upon him again. "Ah, well, your planned escape route hasn't been found or blocked, so if we can get there…"

"You're telling me that you charged in here after me without a plan?" Karl hissed, his eyes getting wide. "Without telling the base? Without a map?"

"You're one to talk!" Drew snapped, cutting off even Sean. "Isn't that what _you_ do half the time? Going in with no real plan, no map of enemy patrols, no reinforcements, no _spotter_? You shooed us off knowing it would be a suicide mission if you went alone!"

"It was suicidal even with a spotter and driver, the difference is a lone soldier is harder to spot," Karl retorted. "Drew, it was a trap. The _Führer_ was never here. If you both came with me you would've been caught too. I was trying to anticipate a development like that."

"Then what about last week, when you refused Sean's help? What about all the missions you asked me to hang back instead of picking you up, leaving to sprint across the open ground with no cover? What about the goddamn Ratte factory, a place we knew nearly nothing about and turned out to be crawling with Rommel's elite soldiers and General Vahlen himself? You're not the only one with contacts: I know for a fact that you asked to do that mission alone!" Drew snapped. "It's like you want to get killed."

Karl's eyes flashed. "I never come out here planning to die," he said, "You know that."

"You sure as hell don't do much to avoid it though. You were more careful before Brauer died. You accepted our help," Drew said quickly, like ripping off a bandage.

Karl froze up. His mouth parted a little, like he was about to say something but the words got tangled in his throat. His eyes darted about Drew's face. He was completely silent for a long, smarting moment. Then he swallowed hard and said, "Don't bring him into this." He sounded like he was aiming for a hard, intimidating tone, but it fell short.

"No," Drew said quietly. "I have to. It's the only way to make you understand. You don't want us to come with you. It's not because you think we're incompetent or because you dislike us, however much Sean worries about that," (he ignored Sean's outraged grumble) Drew said the next part quickly too, but carefully, "You're afraid that we'll die, like Brauer did. You're afraid that you can't always watch our backs."

"And I can't!" Karl spat, "I never saw that panzer coming; hell I missed that I was being led into a trap here despite how goddamn obvious it was. At least here nobody but me had a chance of dying — until you decided to risk your lives to play hero."

Anger lit in Drew like a line of gunpowder. He grabbed Karl by the shoulder; grip tight enough that he couldn't walk away. "That won't work," he said in a cold, clear voice. "You can't make us leave you here. Nothing you say will piss me off enough to ditch you here — Sean shut up. As much as he's griping, nothing will make Sean leave you either. We're getting out together or not at all. _That_ is the plan."

The stubborn clench in Karl's jaw unwound. The flaring anger in his eyes dimmed then sizzled out like a dying coal. He dropped his head and let out a bone-weary sigh, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck, and Drew knew he'd won.

Drew loosened his grip and turned to Sean, who was still scowling but not as fiercely. "Can I have your med kit? I don't think I have enough bandages for Karl in mine," he asked softly.

Sean's lip quirked and he unhooked the bag from his belt. "Sean—" Karl started.

"I'm going to check for enemy patrols. Don't go anywhere," Sean cut off his protest. True to his word he turned on his heel, unholstered his silenced pistol, and started across the street to the nearest building.

Drew kept his hand on Karl's shoulder, and pushed him down onto a block of rubble near the door so he had enough light to work by. "Stay still and quiet," Drew said, "It'll hurt less after I've wrapped your injuries."

"Now, that's a lie if I've ever heard one," Karl muttered, and he shivered when Drew's hand strayed near a wound.

The wound stretched from his navel to the base of his throat, and there were two deep cuts, underneath the line of his collarbone on either side. Karl protested when Drew shifted his scarf to get a better look at it. The wound on the left side of his chest was definitely a word, carved into the skin directly over his heart: _Verräter_ — _Traitor_. Drew sucked in a breath. The wound was definitely Karl's most recent: the jagged scabs were still moist as the blood dried. It had been inflicted just hours ago. He was burning with awful questions, and got the feeling that Karl didn't want to answer any of them, judging by the way he hunched up defensively and wouldn't look at him while he examined it.

He left it be for now and looked at the wounds on Karl's back. They were older, the scabs a dark brown except for a few that had reopened and were a brighter shade of red. They were raised up on the skin and crisscrossed each other without a pattern, unlike the symmetrical and careful cuts on Karl's front. He'd never seen lacerations that looked quite like that, but he was sure that they were from a whip.

There was also a little wound on the back of his head. It was shallow, and looked accidental: a bad scrape from a blunt hit to the head. Karl's face was bruised, and that was the most minor injury he had.

Drew immediately set to unpacking both his and Sean's kit. He'd won his in a trade with an American he'd met a few weeks ago, taking his med kit in exchange for Drew's and two chocolate rations. The American med kits had sulfanilamide powder in them, which was why Drew made such a risky trade to begin with; he figured if he were ever separated from the others with a nasty wound he'd need something to keep it from becoming gangrenous by the time he made it back. He doubted how effective it'd be for Karl's injuries given their age, but he wanted to be safe.

"Is that an American med kit?" Karl asked.

"Sharp eyes — it is," Drew said as he withdrew the tin of the powder. "I traded for it."

Karl hissed despite his best efforts to grit his teeth and bear it and Drew's best efforts not to hurt him as he applied the stuff. When Drew applied it to the wound on his chest, Karl's hand took a fistful of Drew's shirt. When he looked down he saw, to his horror, that Karl had no fingernails on that hand, just scabbed-over lesions.

"Karl—"

"Not a word. Keep going," Karl muttered.

Drew did, applying the powder generously to Karl's fingertips despite his complaints—God knew that those were probably the dirtiest wounds he had. He wrapped Karl's fingers first, despite his protests that he was wasting his bandages and they didn't really hurt. Drew felt better once they were hidden by a sterile white layer of gauze. Karl's other injuries posed a bigger problem, since Drew had to wrap his entire torso, and frequently found himself adjusting for the bandages being either too loose or too tight.

"Drew, it's fine," Karl said. He gasped when Drew drew the bandages tight.

"No it's really not," Drew muttered, "so you can drop the stiff-upper lip."

Karl frowned stubbornly, but made no further protests as Drew finished wrapping his chest and tied off at his shoulder. Even with Sean's bandages there were barely any left after all that.

Sean himself showed up just as Drew was packing up their kits. He frowned at the paltry, thin roll left in his kit but made no comment.

"Our safest route is through the buildings, but we have to kill the guards," he said. "On the road there are only two guards on the roofs, on either side of the street. It's less exposed and we'll have a good view of the surrounding area."

"How are we going to approach the guards?" Karl asked, rising slowly.

"From behind with a knife," Sean deadpanned.

Drew sensed a fight building. "Do the guards face each other or are they walking about?" he asked before Karl could reply.

"They walk about," Sean said. "When they're not facing each other they're looking in different directions. It's the perfect time to kill them. Can you take the one facing northeast out before he can raise the alarm?"

"Yes," Drew said, "In case you've forgotten, I'm in the SOE too."

"Yes your daft plan made me forget," Sean said.

"Don't treat me like a box of china," Karl interrupted. They turned to look at him. He had a mulishly stubborn look in his eyes. Karl stepped up next to Drew, drawing himself up taller. "I could handle one of the guards myself."

"You're injured," Drew hissed.

"Not so badly that I can't handle one guard if I have a knife and the element of surprise," Karl replied.

"You're slouching again," Drew pointed out. Karl attempted to straighten up again, and the uncomfortable twist to his mouth suggested that it wasn't painless. "You can't even stand up straight."

"Don't treat me like I'm helpless," Karl growled, real anger lighting in his eyes. Drew realized then, that Karl had been helpless for the past three nights, and by God he wouldn't be helpless around his own comrades.

Drew sighed and handed him a spare knife in his belt. "Just in case," he said. "Protecting you isn't a burden Karl; you've protected us on too many missions for that to ever be the case."

Karl went stiff at his praise, and stuck the knife in his belt silently.

He turned to Sean. "What's our way up?"

"All the doors are unlocked. Just slip in when the guard marching down the street has his back turned, and climb the stairs."

"Got it," Drew said, "Lead the way."

Sean seemed mollified, but only a little, knowing that the plan was now mostly in his hands. He led them confidently up their ruined street to the turn for the next one on the left, and then ducked behind cover. Drew mimicked him quickly, and Karl mimicked him as quickly as he could. It was painful to see how pained and difficult just crouching and standing up was for him.

There were footsteps down the road, heading towards them, but Sean didn't level his pistol where he expected the patrolling guard's head to be, so Drew could safely presume the guard wasn't going to turn their way. Still, he stopped uncomfortably close to their position, making the hair on Drew's arms stand up.

There was a long moment that was silent but for their hearts beating, then the scuff of the guard's boots on the stone, and the comforting sound of patrolling footsteps getting further away.

Sean led them back into the shadows and then gestured to the other side of the road. Drew curled his hand around Karl's bicep as an assurance that he was behind him and crept across the road. He checked on Karl as soon as they were safely in deep shadow next to the door. The sniper was grimacing and his back was still slightly hunched, but he was neither out of breath nor bent double with pain, so Drew took it as a cue to keep going.

The room they stepped into was dark, but Drew's eyes were used enough to it that he could make out the shape of a low table but no enemies. He drew his knife nonetheless. He tried to keep one eye on the stairs and one on Karl, but the latter was unnecessary: if anything Karl stubbed his toes less than Drew did.

They were very, very slow going up the stairs, putting their weight onto each new step little by little, so as to reduce the risks of any sudden creaks. One did despite their efforts, but nobody came to investigate the noise.

They were nearly as slow and careful on the second floor as on the stairs; the footsteps of the guard above them sounded very loud, as if only a centimeter of material separated them. They could make out his pattern —it was a slow, jagged figure eight and he stopped for quite a bit when facing the other side. The open staircase was in the corner of the guard's eye most of the time, however. Drew would have to climb the stairs quickly if he was to get the guard while his back was turned. So, when they reached the staircase, Drew gestured at Karl, _Stay here_.

Karl scowled, but reluctantly stepped back into the shadows before Drew lost his chance. Drew was careful about the way he distributed his weight as he walked up the stairs—one creak would kill him and Karl both now—but was as quick as he dared. The guard's head and neck came into view first, then his back, then his elbows that showed the line of his arms, holding his SMG…

Drew swept out of the stairwell, knife drawn. Before he had time to overthink it or the guard had the chance to turn Drew took a few fast steps forward and plunged the knife into the side of the man's neck and into his windpipe.

The guard stiffened all over, and blood dripped down in fast lines from the knife wound. Thank God, he made no sound louder than a shocked gurgle.

Drew took his collar in his other hand and pulled out the knife. There was a long spurt of red that sprayed the stone roof, and there were more as Drew carefully lowered the guard to the ground. By the third spurt the guard was still, the pitiful struggle he attempted stopping.

Drew turned to look at the other rooftop, a familiar dread-excitement at what he'd see, and thankfully it was only Sean. He was standing, a slumped over figure that had to be the guard near his feet.

Sean gave him a thumb's-up. He pointed at his position and then pointed at Drew's position. Drew gave him a thumbs-up.

Sean started back down the stairs and Drew did the same to check on Karl. Karl was standing closer to the door to the next building than before and the knife wasn't in the same spot in his belt as before; it was on the other side now. "Has Sean taken out the other guard?" he asked before Drew could say anything.

"Yes—he's coming," Drew whispered, eyeing the knife. Was he just imagining it? Had Karl used it?

"I think that's the last guard inside the building, at least on this side of the road. There was one guard two rooms over who was napping in a chair," Karl said.

"Was?"

"Was," Karl said, readjusting the knife. There wasn't any blood on it that Drew could see, but Karl would've wiped the blade clean after using it.

Drew sighed, "Alright." It was pointless to keep Karl from doing anything, and they could use the help getting out of here. "How are your injuries?"

"Fine," Karl claimed. He was still slouching. Well, that was pointless too.

He turned when Sean crept in. Sean stood. "Any more guards in the next rooms?" He whispered.

"None now," Karl said. Sean looked at him knowingly, but said nothing.

"Let's check the next road. I dare say we'll find stiffer resistance there," Sean said. "Karl, did you notice anything about patrols there?"

"I was in that cell most of the time, when I wasn't spending an hour in Johan's torture room. The farthest I got from it was an old city square with a whipping post."

"We passed by it," Drew said, thinking of the bloodstains on the stones.

"But that café, it was where the body-double that showed up in place of our target was. The rooftops were ringed with guards, most of them hiding, and there were at least a dozen men in the courtyard below," Karl remarked. Drew waited to see if Karl continued the story of how he was captured, but he fell silent.

Drew eased the way back into conversation by saying, "We saw a lot of officers drinking in the café when we came in."

"There might be a lot of guards in the backroad then," Karl said.

"Well we won't know until we check," Sean said.

* * *

There were a lot of guards on the backroad. Two patrolling up and down the street all the way to the dead-end, one against the back wall of the café facing the houses, and an unknown number of guards inside the houses with two on the roof. They weren't getting back that way.

"What do you think?" Sean asked Karl.

Karl grimaced at the amount of guards, "We're not going that way unless we make a diversion."

"What do you have in mind?" Karl watched a truck rumble by, to park next to all the others in the courtyard. "Blowing up those trucks would do it."

Drew eyed the truck's fuel tanks and their proximity to each other. "You won't make a very big explosion just shooting out the fuel tanks. It'll destroy one truck, at best. We need to really scare them."

"Do you have any TNT?" Sean asked.

Drew frowned, "I stashed some in the back of the truck we came in. It's out in the open."

An idea hit Sean in the head, "There's an empty radio room across the street with a generator powering it on top of the roof. It'll mask my shot and give the krauts something else to investigate. Wait here, then I'll clean out the last few buildings and then I'll come back for you."

"It should work," Karl said slowly.

"Exactly," Sean said before Karl could voice any protests. He patted Drew's shoulder. "I'll be back."

He made his way quickly through the joined houses, then when he reached the door to the street he walked out slowly, with a lazy step. He kept his head facing the building across the street while keeping the patrolling guard walking the street out of the corner of his eye. Years of experience as a sniper was the only thing that kept his heart from racing when the guard started walking back towards him.

Drew's disguise seemed to work again though; the guard neither called him out nor paid him any particular mind. Why should he? What another grunt did wasn't his business as long as he wasn't stealing chocolate rations.

Sean walked through the house first to double check that there were no other guards. This confirmed, he ran through the German words he needed in his head and called out to the patrolling guard, " _Hey, can you come here a minute? I need help finding something_."

The guard looked up, and thank God, thought nothing was off. " _What is it?_ " he asked.

" _A file. I misplaced a file…_ "

The guard came in. He was mousy-haired with sharp grey eyes, and a relatively young face that Sean grimly filed away in his memory with all the other young faces he'd seen in his scope. He looked around and his eyes caught unhappily on the multiple large stacks of files in the room. "Do have any idea where it could be?"

Sean pointed to a file cabinet that was almost behind him. "I put it in that one I think, but I might've put it down somewhere. Can you check the cabinet while I check the table?"

The guard shrugged and went to the file cabinet and Sean started to the tabletop before turning back.

" _What did this file look like?_ " The guard asked, lifting his head to turn to Sean.

Sean jabbed the knife in the back of his neck.

The guard collapsed instantly, heavily, against the file cabinet with a clatter that was much too loud for Sean's liking.

He dragged the corpse by the collar to a dark corner under the staircase in the next room, so it wasn't in sight. Nothing could be done about the blood though, so he just trip-mined the entrance.

He was up the staircase, past the body of the guard on the roof, shimmying past the trellis, and next to the generator in no time. Before he did anything Sean took the Carcano he'd taken from the truck and picked a rooftop garden fifty feet away as a point of reference. The scope wasn't nearly as good as the one on his Lee-Enfield, but it served just fine for his current purposes, and with the adjustments made he could shoot perfectly accurately.

He crouched on one knee, and scanned the rooftops for any signs of nearby guards.

None at one o' clock, two, three, four, one at five with no others, none at six, seven, eight, one that was just too close for comfort at nine, none at ten, two at eleven that weren't worth risking it, and none at twelve.

He turned his scope towards one o' clock and zoomed in. No guards on the rooftops there, the same number of guards as they'd counted from their building, and still none near the evac route. Thank God for small miracles.

Sean gave the generator a good kick right in the spot Drew had showed them all months ago at camp. Its steady rumble sputtered, and then it started to clatter and bang in protest at its rough treatment.

Sean immediately checked the guard at his five o' clock. He'd lifted his head up at the noise. Sean adjusted for drop and pulled the trigger. Watched the guard fall.

He turned to the guard at nine, who hadn't noticed the first's fall or the rifle's report in the din of the broken generator, and did the same. Adjusted for drop and pulled the trigger.

He found the bright red crates of dynamite in the back of their truck easily. Adjusted for drop, spin, wind. Pulled the trigger.

The explosion was a thing of beauty. The fireball went up red with a yellow core and knocked over and lit up the other trucks, growing to a massive size, and then ballooned upward for just a moment before swooshing out of existence. A still-flaming tire shot off the rim of one truck, nearly hitting a soldier near the café.

The effect on the krauts was nearly as immediate as the explosion. The officers dove for cover and started screaming orders. The grunts dove for cover and started screaming about Allied commandos.

Sean ran back down the stairs and to the far exit to avoid his own trip mine. By the time he was out on the street half of the soldiers in the street Karl and Drew needed to cross were running to the site of the explosion. So far, so good.

The sight of so many running, panicking krauts made him want to shoot instinctively, but the rest of his training took over and told him to look as much like the enemy he was imitating as possible. So he kept his Carcano in his hands and cursed in his best German.

There were no guards left in the street when his boots hit it. He ran into the nearest building, and wove through it up and down the stairs looking for enemy soldiers to find none. The next had one soldier, standing nearly frozen in shock. He could only be new meat.

Sean got in his face like any more experienced soldier would: "What the hell are you standing here for? Move!"

The boy snapped out of his trance and ran out to join the others.

The officers would rally the troops to them and start giving out orders any time now, if they hadn't already…

That thought propelled Sean through the last house, which he finally confirmed was empty. He gave them a hand signal from the roof to start moving.

Karl and Drew burst out of the door hardly a second later. They reached the buildings quickly. Sean went down the stairs as fast as he safely could.

Drew was so jumpy he nearly pulled his pistol on Sean when he came down behind them. Sean held out a hand to tell them to slow down, "Let me go first and check!"

Sean overtook them, and turned the corner house, the old wooden doors bursting open as he ran onto the roof. There was one guard, on the roof of the tallest house. He was taking cover behind the low wall.

Sean drew his Welrod and shot him in the head when he turned to face him.

Drew and Karl followed him out onto the roof, half-running and half-stumbling as they tried to stay low.

Sean gestured for them to get to the escape point. Karl went faster than Drew, reaching the window first.

Sean followed, rifle at his shoulder, shuffling backward as he scanned the rooftops. Behind him he heard Drew's bootsteps banging on the house's wooden floor.

As soon as he couldn't hear them, he whirled and followed, only barely remembering to shut the door behind him, as he burst out the window and into the night air.


	15. Chapter 15

Karl hated mobile hospitals even more than he hated sick tents. He was sharing a Nissun hut with fifteen other men, thankfully none on the verge of death, though one had a high fever that made him scream and writhe periodically until the delirium passed again.

Karl's own wounds weren't severe enough to send him home (the nurse had raised an eyebrow at him when he said 'thank God'), but he'd gotten an uncountable number of stitches that needed to stay in for two weeks. He was on bed rest for at least ten days so as not to reopen them, and at first he wasn't even allowed to get up to relieve himself the first few days.

He'd been fighting with the nurses at least once a day, and many of them reminded him unnervingly of his mother. He wondered what she'd make of his behavior. He knew that the other men in the hut regarded his feuds with Lieutenant Elena Rosewood and Lieutenant Mary Rowe as entertainment, a precious luxury when confined to one's bed.

It wasn't so bad though. The food was cooked, if nothing to write home about; the corrugated tin walls kept out the sun and most of the sand (but not all of the mosquitos, so they had to wrap themselves in netting at night). The men around him were decent enough company too.

Corporal Thompson, on his left side, tapped the metal frame of his bed. "Hey," he said with a smile slightly thrown off by the plaster on his cheek. He was American, a few years younger than Karl, a very optimistic about his chances of returning home. "There's a new nurse."

"Good," he replied. There were never enough nurses, even in the fixed hospitals.

"Private Ethan from the next tent over says that she's a real beauty," he winked.

"Doubt I could ever find a nurse attractive."

"Maybe you could, if you didn't fight them all the time. Rosewood is pretty, isn't she?"

"No. My mother was a nurse. She was even an army nurse for a few months during the War, before she found out she was pregnant with my older brother," Karl said. He shrugged, and frowned a little as the stitches pulled. "That's probably why."

Thompson made a vaguely sympathetic noise, "Shame to be you. Where is she now?"

"Langley, Virginia. My sister and father are there too, helping in the dockyard."

Thompson shifted on his bed to take the weight off his injured leg, "What about your brother?"

Karl's throat tightened. Thompson had told Karl everything about himself, without pause, from the pride he felt at his sister's graduation to his grief over being jilted by his fiancée before he was conscripted. He actually seemed lighter, freer, after talking about it. Karl envied that. His past stayed in his chest, anchored there, safe and heavy. He'd never told anyone about how his brother died, not even Drew and Sean. Not even Brauer.

But he wanted to tell someone _now_. It was like the words would tear his windpipe if he didn't.

"He's dead," Before he could chicken out he continued, "My father worked in Germany before Hitler came to power. The year he did, a group of SA thugs attacked him after school…"

Thompson's brown eyes got huge. "Shit," He said quietly. "I'm sorry I asked."

"It's alright," Karl said as though it was. "He's one of the reasons I'm here."

"I see why you don't want to go home," Thompson said, looking at him like he'd just seen him for the first time.

"I can't go home until the Nazis are all either dead or out of power," Karl thought of the house in the Berlin suburbs, with its large bay window.

"Well…" Thompson sighed. "Can't say I'd be unhappy if I was told to go home now. But you're almost making me guilty about it."

"Go home. Get a job in a munitions factory. We can always use more tanks."

He grinned, a gap between his teeth, "Yeah, good idea. I'd miss all the boys here though." He rolled back over to catch a nap.

Karl laid back down on the thin, sweaty pillow. He wondered how the patrol was doing. Had Drew been caught making moonshine yet? Were they talking about him, as Burns lit up the campfire? Was everyone there still alive? When he, Drew and Sean made it back to camp the Captain had taken one look at Karl and filed the paperwork for his hospitalization. "I don't know if I ought to demote you two or give you medals," he'd snapped at Drew and Sean. Karl was sure it was the latter; in choosing between efficiency and regulations, the Captain always chose the former. Drew had made Karl promise to write, so they could stay in touch. Sean just said, "Make sure we know you're not dead." Next time the nurses came around he needed to remember to ask for paper and a pen.

He needed to write to his family too. His last letter had been over a month ago, shortly before Brauer died. The two irate letters he'd gotten since made it clear that the matriarchy wasn't happy with him, to say nothing of the stoic but clearly disappointed letter from his father. It wasn't fair to them to regularly drop off the face of the Earth.

All these things were uncomfortable, but less so was the ache and pull of the stitches of the scars on his chest. That _Verräter_ meant nothing to him. If Johan thought that he'd be hurting Karl beyond the cut of the knife, he'd been mistaken.

He knew that he'd done the right thing. He always knew. For Kirstein, for Brauer, for his missing maternal family still in Germany, for the free world, for the Fatherland itself even. He could die from an artillery shell or another sniper's bullet tomorrow and never regret picking up a gun. But he would've regretted dying under Johan's hands after two months of silence towards his family.

Karl asked Rosewood if he could have the materials to write a letter when she arrived with dinner. She promised, once she finished the rounds. As he ate his corned beef (it was for dinner, today, yesterday, the day before that, back in camp, and on and on to the point where he nearly forgot what any other food tasted like), he considered what to write in his letter.

He ought to acknowledge the fact that he'd disappeared for a while, and they deserved to know why. He could talk about Brauer, much as he hated remembering that day and how he'd retreated from it. But did he really want to tell his mother that he'd been captured and tortured? How did he even explain that in a letter? His scars didn't bother him, but it made him squirm in his bed to think of how they'd horrify his mother. When he'd told her years ago that he wanted to go to officer's school, so he could join the war when it came, she had begged him not go. He'd thought his whole life prior to that that his mother was too proud to beg anything of anyone, especially her own son. If he told her that she'd nearly lost her only remaining son...

But she needed to know. And he had no intention of ever making the mistake he did that night again. Drew, as he'd conceded reluctantly during his stay in the mobile hospital, was right.

 _"You're a tough one, Karl, but you're not invincible. You don't have to win this war on your own you know."_

His thoughts lingered on Drew and Sean until Rosewood came back with a pen, paper, and a sincere smile. "I'll pick it up from you in the morning. Just put down the address, or your recipient's full name and rank if you can't."

Karl grunted as he sat up, feeling his stitches protest the movement. He carefully set down the envelope on his raised knees, and lightly wrote _Sergeant Drew John Kelly_. That done, he set it down on his left side, and kept the other envelope and most of the paper in his lap to write the properly long letter his mother and sister had been demanding for months.

 _Dear Drew,_

 _I'm sending this to you since I've heard down the grapevine that you're still in_ _our patrol with Sean. Let everyone know that I'm_ _healing nicely, and picking fights with the nurses. Let Sean know that I'm still alive and able to shoot better than he can. I hope the Captain didn't make you do latrine duty for three weeks because you saved my sorry arse. I know I've said it until you're both sick of it, but I owe you and Sean my life, and if we meet again on the battlefield I want to repay it._

 _And I swear I'll keep my promise. I'll write to you until we meet again, and_ _I'm sure that you'll do the same. If you can, bother Sean to do it too._

 _Yours in camaraderie,_

 _Karl M. Fairburne_


End file.
